


Runaway

by grumblebee



Category: Turn - Fandom
Genre: Cock Ring, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Missing Persons, Rumors, Running Away, Sickness, Strangers to Lovers, Suspected Murder, bad survival skills, baking montages, coping with loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-08-27 06:43:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 60,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8391265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumblebee/pseuds/grumblebee
Summary: Benjamin Tallmadge, through unfortunate circumstance, can no longer go to Yale. With home life becoming unbearably toxic, he leaves home in the dead of night in search of a better life. His new life takes him to the Appalachian Trail, miles and miles of wilderness that stretch down the East Coast. Ben forages, hunts (pitifully) and pretends he is just another hiker doing the 6 month trek. But summer is waning, and the first cold snaps are rough in the mountains. Barely making shelter, Ben hunkers down for what might be his last night. But someone else is here. And well, what would you do if you were a runaway; cold and alone, when a tall man offers you a warm bed for the night...





	1. Chapter 1

_ [Day 0] _

In the darkness of his room, lit only by the trickle of street lamps through his window, Ben hastily emptied his underwear drawer into a knapsack, hands trembling as he stuffed what little life he could into the bag. The fighting in his parent’s room had ceased, the hours of berating insults hurtled at him through walls lingering amongst the hushed quiet of crickets. With a sharp, dull thud Ben’s toe collided with the dresser, a few curses bitten off under his breath as he surveyed his room one last time. 

There was his bed, worn deep with long nights crying into his pillow, a crumpled up playgirl magazine shoved hastily between the mattress and wall. His bookshelf, lined with textbooks and half filled notebooks. His Yale banner hung crooked off the side of the wood, the memory of him taping it up fresh in his mind--the stark, inviting smell of ink on his acceptance letter. A dresser-- now half empty, devoid of socks and boxers, and a few choice t-shirts. His closet was raided; his favorite flannel shirt slung around his waist, a light jacket over his shoulders. The rest would stay here, never to be seen again. 

Ben patted himself down, feeling for the money belt clipped underneath his baggy shirt. Secured tight around his waist, he had meticulously counted the cash squirreled away from odd jobs and residual loan checks. $6,457, and it had to last for-- well, who knows how long. He hoisted the pack onto his shoulders, its weight heavier than Ben expected. The straps dug in as he quietly padded towards the door to his room, pausing only once more to take it all in.

“Good fucking riddance”

It was meant to come off cold and angry, but was traitorously raw and cracked from crying. The screaming match earlier that evening had wreaked havoc on his voice, letting only a crackling whisper leave his lips. 

Ben had run away from home before, he just never got very far. The last few summers of high school he and his parents fell into a tense routine. Ben would  _ fuck up _ , though the reasons were varied and vague; missed curfew, bad attitude, skipped sermon. It all boiled down to Ben screaming at his father, face red as he tried to defend himself.

A bag would be hastily packed, $200 bucks wadded up in his back pocket as Caleb let him crash on the spare couch in his basement. He'd cry and pretend that Caleb’s uncle wasn't on the phone with his dad. That he couldn't hear him talk about how he'd cool off in a week or so. Ultimately, Ben would swallow his pride when the money ran out (ashamed that he only lasted 2 weeks) and slink back to his parents. He would behave. He would comply. But sooner or later Ben would be caught half shimmying out a window as Abe and Selah bolted down the driveway, and the whole shebang would repeat itself. The couch, $200, and a clock to run out.

Settling in a worn out seat, Ben closed his eyes as the train pulled away from the station, Setauket nothing more than a few lights in the pitch black night. How he wished those nights on Caleb’s couch were the roughest he'd ever had. That  _ this  _ wasn’t happening. His fingers ran over the edge of a small journal, thumbing the pages apart. Tucked inside was a picture, though Ben couldn't bring himself to look at it. The thought alone brought tears to his eyes, blurring the train car into a mess of colorless blobs. 

Nate said it would be fine.

He was  _ wrong.  _

Ben wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve, a little grateful he had the car to himself. The conductor had already clipped his ticket, so there wouldn't be any lingering eyes to see how fucked he was right now. No concerned parents looking to call the police. Just him. And that's what he wanted, wasn't it? The chance to be himself. To get lost in the hills and rely on himself for once, believing that the inability to walk home would drive him to be a better man. That's how it worked out in books...on tv...and maybe, it would work for him too.

As the train sped forward in the night, Ben began to trace the route in his mind. Another train, a transfer to a dirty bus, and then another out where buses were scant. Maybe hitch a ride. He could offer some cash for gas, and a good cover story, but that's about it. He'd start a new life, a better one. One where Yale and Setauket were all just bad memories belonging to a man who didn't exist anymore. 

* * *

_ [Day 1] _

The plan was simple. It was just like camping--in fact, it  _ was _ camping. Ben reached the edge of the trail just after 10 a.m., ducking into a little run down supply shop for gear. Some iodine tablets, a cheap little tent, flint and a pocket multi tool. It put a little dent in his budget, but an investment well worth the looks the cashier was giving him as he thumbed out the cash.

“Appalachian trail?” He asked. Ben looked up, and smiled.

“It's been a dream of mine. Didn't have the time to start from Maine, but Jersey’s just as good. How long do you suppose it’ll take to hit Georgia?” Ben mused, zipping his multi tool into the outer pocket of his bag. The cashier laughed.

“Depends on you, kiddo. Don't go rushing through or you’ll miss all the fun. But even experienced hikers take about six months end to end. You sure you want to do it all in one go?” 

Ben hummed, hoisting his pack back onto his shoulders. “That's the plan. Work in a little adventure during my gap year.” The cashier gave him a dubious look, examining his equipment. 

“Well...be careful. Cold comes sooner in the mountains. Maybe invest in something warmer in a few weeks. You need to winterize  _ before _ it’s necessary. Otherwise you might freeze to death.” He said, handing Ben his change.

This should have been the moment Ben felt dread, realizing the possibility that this trip was not some weekend with his parents at a family campground. It was brutal wilderness, full of drastic weather changes and trip ups that could mean life or death. But he felt surprisingly calm as he pocketed his change, excited to hit the trail.

“I’ll be sure to do that. Thanks for the help, man.”

It was the first real interaction Ben had since fleeing Setauket, and he was pleasantly surprised at how natural his story came to him. Just a college kid with a little time off, and the itch for adventure. 

The first day was bliss. Sunshine warm on his skin, making his shirt stick to his chest. The gentle hush of bugs and rustling leaves. Miles and miles of wilderness sprawled ahead. Ben hiked high into the hills, following the main trail. A few others passed him by, some eagerly ushering their kids to the shade for snacks or pictures. They lined their kids up, pointing at a kitschy trail sign high above their heads: 

← Georgia.  Maine → 

That's it. Only two directions on this wonderful little trail. And it was all Ben needed. 

He whittled the day away meandering around, lazily taking in the sights before hunkering down for the night. Today was practice day. He learned how to set up his tent. He read the rules at designated camp grounds. Sitting around a communal fire pit, fingers sticky with marshmallows, Ben chatted up other travelers on the trail. A few were serious hikers, faces gaunt and bodies lithe from months of walking. Ben considered tagging along, but they had started from Georgia, and Ben wasn't interested in heading towards Maine. 

They did leave him with a few tips. Stick to the main trail; don't leave unless something major is blocking it. Trail towns appear once every five days or so, so stock up when you see one. Keep your feet dry and warm. Winterize. 

Ben jotted these down in his notebook as he settled in for the night, the sound of fire crackling in the distance. The page was filled with reminders: supply lists, inventory, tips, and his calculations for the journey. He figured he’d cover 20-30 miles a day, using the 15 minute mile rule. Sure, he'd stop to take in the sights, do a little journaling, but he'd keep his stride. 

It felt  _ good.  _ Like a new chapter of his life had been opened. For the first time in months, Ben fell asleep with a smile on his face.

* * *

_ [Day 2] _

There is no such thing as a 15-minute mile. Out here the trail was rugged, and Ben found himself crawling inch by inch over rocks and logs. He longed for the even, open space of concrete. Instead he was greeted by dense forest, where his hands could do no more than slap at his skin as the bugs feasted on him. He made a note to buy the largest can of repellant at the next town--if he still had any unbitten skin by then. 

While the trail was beautiful, the work was brutal. It started to make sense why the serious hikers looked like toothpicks. Ben felt heavy and out of breath, despite being athletic back home. Track and field did  _ nothing _ for him here. 

At the end of the day Ben eagerly set up camp, this time much more alone. He did a quick number crunch and was appalled to find he had traversed only seven miles. “Jesus fucking Christ.” He swore, putting his head in his hands. His muscles ached and burned, making even settling into his sleeping bag a chore. This was just a minor set back. This was nothing. Tomorrow he would do 10 miles, and then 15 the following. Before you know it, he’ll be speeding through his 20-30 like a pro. 

* * *

 

_ [Day 3]  _

He did five miles. Five whole miles in a 10 hour trek. Ben cursed himself for lounging around, but the ache in his muscles from the day prior was too painful to ignore. His shoulders felt bruised, and shifting the pack onto them took courage. His calves were on fire. Ben took breaks frequently, huffing and puffing as he drained his canteen. 

That was another problem. Water. Ben was constantly going off trail to find it. He told himself to pace his intake, wetting his lips whenever the thirst became too intense. But there would be a stint in the summer sun, and Ben would break and toss back the canteen until it was dry. Cue walking off trail for close to an hour, inspecting streams and mixing it with his iodine tablets. Repeat until the sun was low in the sky, and Ben was hastily pitching his tent. 

* * *

_ [Day 6] _

Ben finally started to accept that seven miles was his best. He strove for it, and figured that as long as he's got no place to go, he shouldn't rush the trail. 

His first trail town was exciting. Campers and hikers flooded the path again; a sight Ben had missed in his few days alone. He treated himself to breakfast at a diner before scouring the town. The town was geared towards hikers, and was accommodating to those who have committed to the trail. Ben found a shower house, and took a well deserved scrub down. He restocked on drinking tablets, snacks, bug repellent. It was obvious his seven miles would be significantly lower today, but he didn't care. He took joy in the company he found, huddled once again around a fire, laughing as carefree as can be.

* * *

_ [Day 8] _

There's howling and rustling outside his tent. Ben sat up for hours as every snapping twig sent chills down his spine. 

His lonely tent stood raised on a little wooden platform. The parks department leaves these platforms so campers don't have to pitch their tents in the mud. Yet that courtesy was overwhelmed by the sense that he was being served to the wolves on a silver platter. 

The howling wasn't close, but the rustling was. 

And it would be until the sun rose.

* * *

 

_ [Day 10] _

Bandages have been pushed to the top of the list. Ben’s feet are covered in blisters. As he eases out of his shoes he feels the tender skin threaten to burst. Some pop as he readies for bed, prompting him to pitifully dab ointment on the flesh beneath.   


He’s taken to a new hobby too, one that distracts him momentarily from the aches and pains of his hike. Ben moans into his travel pillow, hand working around his cock as he imagines soft hands guiding him. He yearned for the press of lips on his, or the groans of another man as he ground against him. Instead he makes due with the sound of crickets, and the soft hum of the vibrating cock ring he had stashed away. 

A variety of men pass through his mind, all of them fit and flexible, but none of them are Nate. Ben only thinks of Nate after the deed is done, when the warmth of his orgasm retreats and he's left with the sobering realization that he hasn't seen another soul for days. No eyes to search and acknowledge his, save for the little worn out picture tucked in his journal. Him and Nate, arms linked as they smiled at the camera. Ben felt tears welling in his eyes.

Did Nate feel this alone, too?

* * *

_ [Day 16] _

Horrible. Fucking awful. Mortifying.

Ben woke up after sleeping in; something he had come to hate. Sleeping in meant missing the sun, and summer was waning. But even more horrifying was the fact that his tent flap was  _ open.  _

He bolted upright, surveying his small tent for signs of company. None. Just him, knees curled to his chest. But there  _ had _ been someone here, the zipper was too stiff to undo on its own. Leaving his tent Ben saw the full picture. He had been ransacked. 

His pack had been dragged from the tent and pilfered. Boxers and tshirts were strewn across the forest floor, picking up dirt and dried leaves. Ben frantically gathered his things, taking note of what went missing in the night.

The majority of his socks were gone, as were two out of the three boxes of his iodine tablets. The one he was left with was running dangerously low. They left his journal, his flashlight and flint. Ben scribbled it all down, making note of what needed to be replaced at the next town when it dawned on him.  _ The money belt. _ Ben tore the remainder of his pack apart, his tent, his sleeping bag. He scoured the area around the camp where he had seen clothes strewn.  _ Gone.  _ It was all  _ gone.  _

A trail town would do nothing for him now. He was penniless, and this time miles away from home. Ben sat in his tent that day, resigned to sobs. How fucking useless was he? All this effort. All this heartache. And he still only made it two weeks. 

There was no turning back now. He couldn't do anything more than move forward and hope that he would hit his stride. That night Ben dreamed of sitting on Caleb’s couch, watching him play on his Xbox. 

“Do you need a ride tomorrow? To Yale?”

Ben checked his phone quickly, a name popping up. “Nah, Nate’s coming.”

* * *

 

_ [Day 25] _

The drinking tablets ran out, despite how frugal Ben was with them. After being robbed, Ben reread the label, calculating how to stretch the tablets to make them last. He halved them, then quartered them as the supply dwindled. Now he had none. The rest of his food was also rationed; a clutch of overly salty snacks. 

The last of his treated water was finished past noon, and Ben walked off trail to find a stream. He stood at the edge of it cautiously, watching the water dribble over the rocks. His lips felt chapped and dry, but Ben resisted the urge to drink straight from the stream. 

He knelt by the bank of the stream, fingers clawing into the soil. He parted the leaves and debris, digging downward until he saw water seep up through the dirt. He kept digging until it was a little well of water rising from a pitch black hole. Ben sighed, dipping his canteen into the puddle. He continued the cycle of digging and refilling until his canteen was half full. 

Sweaty and exhausted, Ben sat back and pressed the canteen to his lips. He closed his eyes and figured if it was good enough on  _ Man vs. Wild _ , it was good enough for him. The water tipped back into his mouth was cool, but musty. He couldn't filter the dirt out of his canteen, and each sip was an invitation for a fine layer of silt to coat his tongue. Ben gagged, but drank it down regardless. 

Back on the road, Ben was too tired to scold himself for how long it took to dig the hole. He was still parched, and the road was still long. About three hours and two refills later Ben felt his gut clench, knees turning to jelly beneath him. He stumbled off into the bushes and heaved.

* * *

 

_ [Day 30]  _

Today was the first day Ben could leave his tent without fainting. The past five days he was hunkered down in one spot, wracked mercilessly by bouts of vomiting and diarrhea. Stomaching food was near impossible. The smell of beef jerky gave him dry heaves. The water was tainted, and Ben had suffered the consequences. 

Still, he had to drink. He was losing more water than he was taking in, and as horrifying as it was to drink again, he was forced to. Ben stumbled in a wide circle around his tent, finding a fast flowing river. The water here was sparkling. Ben thoroughly rinsed his flask, trying not to gag as the sludgy remains of silt poured out. 

His new supply was clean, and Ben felt himself walk a little stronger each time he made his way down to the river. Sitting on a rock, feet dangling in the water, Ben watched fish splash in the shallows and wondered how hard it would be to snag one.

* * *

 

_ [Day 31]  _

Very hard. Ben had fashioned a fishing rod out of a broken branch and some dental floss, and leaned it up against a tree as he searched for bait. A handful of worms later, Ben tried his hand at casting the line into the river. He aimed towards where he saw fish splashing, their little ripples frantically scattering as the worm hit the water. 

He waited patiently, hoping the fish would return and nibble the bait. But after two hours and no fish the rumbling in his stomach got the better of him. They were  _ right there _ , splashing and fucking around in front of him. He was just going to go in there and grab one. Wring it by its little fishy neck and eat something that wasn't peppered jerky for the first time in days. 

He emerged from the river a mere 10 minutes later, soaked to the bone and empty handed. The fish had retreated down stream, and though Ben’s stomach ached for one, the first fall off a slippery river rock dashed his hopes of catching one. Trudging back to his tent, shoes squishing, Ben could feel the shift in the wind; the first signs of autumn. 

* * *

 

_ [Day 34]  _

Ben was once again trapped in his tent, a torrential downpour beating against the flimsy fabric. He had been hiking when the sky turned dark, with only a few seconds to realize how extreme the storm would be. Ben set up his tent in record time, though he was drenched in the process. Annoyed, Ben stripped out of his clothes outside the tent, shoving them into a bag before climbing into the safety of his sleeping bag. It was warm here; safe. 

With all activities cancelled for the day Ben amused himself the only way he knew how; by taking out the little cock ring and slipping it on. He bit his lip as the toy vibrated against his balls, fingers thumbing over the tip of his cock. If he was going to be starved, exhausted, and pained, the least he could do was stroke off whenever he wanted. He'd built up stamina with his toy, coming two or three times before drowsiness set in. 

But the nap wouldn't last long. A few hours into sleeping the wind picked up, whistling loudly through the trees. The woods creaked and groaned as low branches snapped off and hit the tent like tiny wooden shrapnel. And then in an instant it was gone-- his  _ tent _ was gone. 

The loud ripping sound startled Ben, and he opened his eyes quick enough to see the enormous gash in the side. As he shifted in his bag, a huge gust slammed the side of the tent. The pegs snapped free, sending the tent flying. Ben held onto his pack, covering his head at the tent ripped free; leaving him curled in his sleeping bag.

With the rain still coming down hard, and his sleeping bag soaked, Ben hurried to get dressed in whatever was slightly dry. He pulled the sopping wet bag to a tree, draping it over some low lying branches to keep out the rain. Huddled underneath, knees to his chest, Ben tried to think warm thoughts as his teeth chattered uncontrollably. 

When morning arrived the sun broke through the clouds, and Ben went searching for his tent. Torn to shreds. Not even salvageable. It was wrapped around the trees like gauze, shredded and useless. Ben was left with nothing but his soaking sleeping bag, and a tickle in his chest. 

* * *

 

_ [Day 40]  _

The rabbit was small, but it put up the biggest fight Ben had ever seen. It fell into the trap, foot snagged on the loop of rope Ben had carefully set out beforehand. Quickly Ben snatched it up, fully intent on crushing the thing against his chest, and devouring it. He went so far as to squeeze it, feeling its little heart beat frantically beneath his fingertips. The rabbit bucked and kicked, nails tearing at Ben’s arms. 

_ Just do it. Just snap it. _

Tiny little eyes, and a twitchy nose moving frantically as he wrangled it close.

_ You want to eat don't you, jackass?  _

A small squeal; a scream. 

Ben sank to his knees, hands loosening to a firm hold. He cradled the rabbit against his chest, soothingly stroking it until it's heartbeat returned to a constant hum. It was so warm. So soft. Just like the blanket in Nate’s dorm. It felt as though a hole was punched through his already aching chest. 

The rabbit wriggled from his grasp and hopped back into the woods.

Ben thought about his missed meal as he roasted foraged chestnuts over his campfire. His yield was small, only a handful. The hunger pains were so intense that Ben could hardly wait for the nuts to cool. His fingers burned as he peeled the charred skin from them, feasting on the white flesh beneath. It was bland, but more than welcome on his empty stomach. 

Still, some fatty meat would have been nice. His clothes no longer fit right, and Ben had come to making new holes in his belt to keep his pants up. He coughed as a piece of chestnut went down the wrong way, stopping his frenzied eating. He coughed until it was clear, and then coughed a few minutes longer as the tickle in his chest bloomed into an ache that took the wind from him. Ben saw his breath escape him in thick clouds that hung in the air, whisked away by a cold and bitter wind. 

* * *

 

_ [Day 46] _

Fatigue. That's the only word to describe it. Ben had lost his appetite, his stomach ceasing its churning at the thought of food. His canteen remained full, though soon after nightfall it turned to a block of ice. His pace had slowed to a crawl these past few days, the cough he had developed wracking his body. It was deep, bringing tears to his eyes with every fit. 

He only had enough energy to start a small fire, though not a very good one. It flickered dangerously low, no more powerful than a candle in a hurricane. The ground had turned hard and cold, it's chill seeping through Ben’s sleeping bag. There wasn't much strength in him to do anything. 

He half-heartedly tried to touch himself, but found little interest. Holding a pen was impossible. He coughed if the breeze so much as passed him. 

Heavy and weak, Ben curled up in his sleeping bag, the fabric pulled up to his nose. In here it was warm, just slightly. Ben could shove his hands in his armpits and pretend he was wearing the heaviest jacket he owned; the one back in Setauket with the faux fur trim. It would tickle his nose, warm and fuzzy--not the icy cold prickling he felt now. 

His body only moved to shiver, and it did so violently. Each hot breath that escaped him was followed by a round of coughing, all heat leaving him. It took all Ben’s concentration to steady his breath, to will himself to sleep. He imagined being back in his dorm at Yale, Nate perched on the edge of his bed. It was warm and safe...and he'd worked so hard. Nate would run a hand through his hair, and tap him on the nose.  _ Sleep. _ It told him to  _ sleep. _ Ben felt his eyes grow heavy, lids sliding down.  _ I will, Nate.  _ His heart beat slowed.  _ I’ll go to sleep. _

“Young man, if you fall asleep right now I can guarantee you will freeze to death.” 

Ben bolted upright, his cheeks stinging with tears.

A man.

There was a man in his camp. 


	2. Chapter 2

There was a man in his camp. Between the coughing and wheezing Ben had hardly noticed a twig snap, let alone a _whole_ person treading through the underbrush. And what a person it was…

  
The man was tall, broad shouldered, and swathed warmly in a heavy canvas coat and fleece sweater. He was well groomed; clean shaven. He must live near here, or have a car. Ben wondered if he was about to die 30 feet from a trail town. And death was a _great_ possibility. While the stranger had warned Ben not to fall asleep, he was also here _alone_. Alone in the woods, with a tall man, and no one knew where he was.

  
“Wh--” Ben began, interrupted by a fit of coughing. Beneath his sleeping bag his fingers searched for his multi-tool, clasping around it tightly. The stranger moved forward.

  
“I just came because I saw your fire. This area is for stealth camping only; no campfires. But you don't look so good…” he said, taking a few steps forward. Ben raised a hand quickly, the feeble pocket knife of his multi-tool shaking in the direction of his guest. The man raised his hands as a sign of peace.

  
“I won't get closer. I just need to make sure you're ok. I'm George.” He said. Ben paused, knife still pointing at him warily. The coughing subsided long enough for Ben to croak out a response.

  
“I’m Ben.”

  
George nodded, taking a step back to prove that he had no intention of infiltrating anymore of Ben’s space. “Ok, Ben. How old are you?”

  
“Why?”

  
“Just a question. You don't need to answer if you don't want to.”

  
The knife was becoming heavier in his hand, making it shake uncontrollably. George eyed him with concern. “Ben, I only ask because you look _really_ sick. That cough is serious. Is there anybody we can call to let them know you're here? Mom? Dad?”

  
Tears came to Ben’s eyes. Like fucking hell he was being sent home by some trekker playing the Good Citizen. He'd rather die here than have his dad find him in some hospital in...whatever fucking state he just passed out in.

  
“No. No family.”

  
“Then a doctor, to a hospital--”

  
“No hospitals.” Ben snapped. George quieted, and Ben felt a momentary pang of guilt. “I don't have insurance...or money.” That seemed to do the trick. George lowered his hands, features softening as he looked around the pitiful campsite. His fire was almost burnt out, his sleeping bag filthy from being dragged all over the trail. His backpack lay open, toiletries mostly empty and visible even in the low light.

  
“Are you homeless, Ben?” He asked. And for a split second Ben almost said “No”, but the truth of the situation finally sunk in. He was homeless. This wasn't him at Caleb’s, or summer camp. He was alone out here, permanently. Ben gave a weak nod, letting his hand drop to the sleeping bag with a soft thud. This was really bad. Worse than he thought it would be. He was getting sick, and the nights would only get worse from here.

  
George sighed, and took a knee so that he could talk eye to eye with Ben from the opposite side of the campfire. “I don't want to alarm you, but if a ranger comes out here and sees your fire there could be fines. You seem pretty hard for cash as it is without the parks guys bleeding you. And,well, we haven't even hit the low temperature tonight. I live a half hour from here, not far at all. I can give you something to eat, someplace warm to sleep--”

  
“No, no no no…”

  
“ _Please_. Even if just for tonight. You look god _awful_ \-- in the most respectful sense, Ben. Don't stay here tonight.”

  
Ben shuddered, wrapping his thin hoodie closer to his body. The thought of warmth, actual _warmth_ , was enough to make him cry. The bone chilling wind cutting through him sped up his answer, and with a small terrified voice he responded. “Yeah, ok.”

  
George looked relieved, approaching slowly to gather Ben’s things for him. “Can you stand?” Ben shook his head. He could barely keep his head up, let alone rose to his feet. He sat in silence as George packed his bag, surprised to see that the man actually made more room in the pack than he had.

  
“Here.” George said, slipping out of his coat. He draped it gently over him, secondhand warmth lingering in the lining. Ben clutched it tightly to his body as he was eased out of the filthy sleeping bag. The bag was rolled up and secured to his pack, then hoisted onto George’s shoulders. Ben huffed to himself, figuring the only thing that could make today worse is if George bolted and stole whatever he had left.

  
“Come now. Let's get you inside.” George said, offering Ben a hand. He took it, trying feebly to rise to his feet. He tried not to look George in the eyes, afraid to let him see the tears starting to form at his horrible display. “Ok, ok. Here...I've got you.”  
Warm arms encircled Ben, and in a moment he was off his feet. Legs draped loosely over one arm, the other holding up his back, where a strong hand held him below the armpit, Ben had never felt more helpless; carried out of the woods like an injured child.

  
As relieved as his aching joints were to be off the ground, Ben was less than relaxed. New panic flooded his senses as the sight of George’s car came into view. He was about to get into a car with some strange man who found him in the woods. This was the type of shit that ended up playing on _Criminal Minds,_ only this time it would be Ben’s mangled body found in some shallow grave in backwater nowhere. He wished he hadn't dropped the multi-tool, or let George pack it so neatly into his bag. He needed _something_ in case this went sour. George already had the upper hand; tall, strong, not starving to death. Ben just needed something to poke him with.

  
Ben’s weight was shifted as George searched for his keys, and soon the little click of the lock could be heard. Ben was rested on the hood of the car as George prepared his seat. There was an old radio antenna on the hood. _Really?_ Maybe he could snap it off. Hide it in his hoodie and stab George in the eye if he got any ideas. George’s voice returned just as Ben’s fingers numbly groped at the metal.

  
“Ok, ready.”

  
The passenger seat had been reclined, thick flannel blankets waiting. Ben was eased into the chair, and swaddled; George didn't ask for his coat back. The ignition started, and Ben felt the steady hum of the engine begin. He didn't realize how much he missed that sound. It reminded him of long night rides with Nate, parking his old rust bucket on some hill to drink; Ben complaining that they were missing valuable study time. Regret grew in the pit of his stomach. He would strangle that version of himself now. What an idiot he was for thinking there were things better than sitting on that hood with Nate.

  
The darkness of the trail disappeared as the car rolled forward, meeting street lamps that flew by in a blurry haze. Ben dabbed at his eyes with the back of his sleeve, clearing some treacherous tears. Before him was his reflection, faint on the glass of the window. He was haggard; face tired and thin. A patchy stubble covered his jaw, and it was fairly obvious that Ben had tried to keep up appearances with a dull, dry razor. Tear tracks lined his cheeks, cutting through a fine layer of dirt and sweat. Ben tore his eyes away from the reflection. He had some dignity left before it. In his mind’s eye he was just as he was when he left Setauket; bright eyed, full cheeked, though with the same amount of tears to shed. Now he looked like a husk. A filthy wreck. Ben twisted the hem of his crusty hoodie in his hands, glancing beneath the blanket to look at it; stained. And he didn't have to guess too hard at what some of them were.

  
A bright neon light assaulted his eyes, and the car slowed to a stop. George cleared his throat, hesitant to disturb Ben from their silent ride. “Ideally I’d like you to eat something homemade , but you really need something right now. Are burgers ok?”

  
Ben blinked, eyes adjusting to read the halo of light just behind George, colorful text and images lining up. _Oh, McDonald’s_. Ben nodded. “Yes...thank you.” George muttered a few words, something along the lines of _no problem_ or _my pleasure_. Ben listened to George order; two cheeseburgers, fries, two cokes and a milkshake. He grinned sheepishly as the girl at the window handed him his food.

  
“You enjoy now”

  
“Thank you, have a good one.”

  
Ben was only half there, the scent of greasy meat overwhelming his senses, but he did hear George say to eat right away. He sank his teeth into the bun, hot juices seeping through. His stomach groaned, finally getting a taste of all the fat it longed for. The burger didn't last long, only a few minutes before Ben was chomping at his own thumbs, unable to stop the urge to consume.

  
George kept a close eye on him, one hand in the wheel while the other held his own half eaten burger. The car bopped along, jostling Ben as he fished the last of the fries out of the bag. At the sound of ice sloshing in the cup, George piped up. “Save room for your milkshake.” He said lightly, one hand moving to tap the lid of the cup. Ben didn't reach for it immediately. He stared at his empty cup of soda, trying to chase the last of watered down sugar from the bottom. This generosity had to have a price. His full stomach turned, the gruesome possibilities George had in mind for him unfurling in his mind.

  
George must have picked up on Ben’s unease, replying “It’s ok. Take it. I hope vanilla is ok”

  
Ben caved, gently placing the cup on top of the blanket. He was still too cold to hold it directly, and opted to wrap the blanket around the cup; a makeshift cozy for his frozen fingers. The first taste of vanilla, sweet and light, made his heart flutter. His eyes slid shut as wonderful memories frame back to him. Summer sun, sand between his toes as he and Caleb skirted the cool waters on the shore. The way Caleb would dare himself to chug his milkshake. The way Ben laughed as he watched him suffer some well deserved brain freeze. Each new sip renewed those memories, vivid with each pass over his tongue.

  
A sudden bump in the road broke him from his memories, initiating a coughing spree as Ben tried to catch his breath. George glanced over. “We’re almost home. There's a water bottle by your feet if you need it.” Ben nodded, continuing his fit into the crook of his elbow. It sounded grotesque. It came from deep in his lungs, and bellowed so hard his chest ached. Tears stung his eyes as he tried desperately to control it, feeling ashamed that he was making such a fuss.

  
The car turned off the road, headlights illuminating a long tree lined driveway. Ben’s breath steadied as they drew close to a house; dark but fairly large, with a long wrap around porch. The wheels crunched gravel, bumping to a stop a few yards from the house. The portion of the house Ben could see in the circle of light was well kept; no peeling paint, nothing immediately concerning. But then again...wouldn't George want that? A nice, unassuming house where the neighborhood murderer could reside? Ben had the sickly feeling that this false sense of comfort would end with him chained in a dank basement, someplace sound proofed in case George had a little get together up top.

  
The sound of dogs rose through the night air, and George looked up from the dash. “Oh, are you allergic to dogs? I have a few…” Ben shook his head, heart pounding. A _few_? It sounded like a whole pack. In the dark their cries sounded garbled and menacing. “They won't bother you, Ben. I promise.”

  
His heart didn't cease its thudding. It only got worse as George helped him out and carried him bridal style to the door. The screen cracked open and the barking got louder.

  
“Guys, come on... _enough_ ” George said earnestly. The light flicked on and Ben had to blink a few times. Four foxhounds, not quite puppies but not yet adults. “Yeah, see? Louder than they look.” The dogs were trained well. After George asked them to stop they quieted, shuffling eagerly to meet their new guest. “You can meet them later. Let's get you cleaned up first.”

  
It amazed Ben how easily George carried him to the bathroom, gently gliding so that he didn't bump into any of the walls or furniture. The house was quaint, and though only a little light was on, Ben got a good impression of the home. Cozy and lived in, with plush worn couches and antique decor. It looked like a house you’d inherit from your grandmother, humble and full of items that have been fixed in place for decades, with no heart to move them elsewhere.

  
The bathroom was more modern, obviously fixed up within the last year or so. George set Ben down on the lid of the toilet, a fuzzy cover beneath him. He busied himself readying the shower, fiddling with the knobs as a rush of hot water sprung from the head. The steam blew back, warming Ben’s cheeks wonderfully as he took a look around the bathroom from his perch. Beige tiled floors, matching with the dusky rose colored walls. A small watercolor of a lilac bouquet hung over the towel rack, where two fluffy towels waited. The tub was deep; so deep that George, in his massive glory, had to rest his underarm on the lip of the tub as he knelt before it. A little wooden step stool lay beside the tub, two steps high.

  
George rose from his knees, cheeks pink and eyes downcast. “The water should be fine. I suggest you just sit in the tub for now, just to be safe. Do you need...uh…” he motioned towards the step ladder. Ben blanched.

  
“No! No...I can...I’m ok, thanks.”

  
George nodded, clearing his throat. “I’ll leave a change of clothes right outside the door. Just grab them when you're ready and I’ll wash out the pack.”

  
Ben wanted to protest, say he can wash his own clothes, but it was futile. They bathroom mirror had begun to steam up, and the promise of hot water melted away all the fight left in him. Instead he relented, nodded briefly until George clicked the door shut, and he was alone.

  
And then he waited.

  
For what, he didn't really know. For George’s footsteps to disappear. For the door to open again, in some crude attempt to catch him undressing. For the illusion of safety to crumble away and reveal what Ben had learned on the trail; that people were not kind, and that he still had a lot that could be taken from him. It took a few minutes to summon the courage to undress, first unzipping his hoodie and tossing it to the floor. Then he sat a minute more, ears trained past the sound of rushing water to the hall just beyond the door, waiting for the creak of boots. Nothing. He kicked off his shoes and peeled off his socks. George had said he'd return with clothes, and Ben had half a mind to wait until he delivered them to fully disrobe.

  
The returning sound of boots instilled terror in him, he felt like a man waiting to be escorted to the electric chair, the long steady strides of his savior nearing to tear him from his cozy cell. But the encounter was brief. George did not knock. He didn't jimmy the knob to check if it was locked, or speak through the door. He paused only a moment, a time in which Ben could assume his clothes were being placed in front of the door, and then turned heel and headed back towards the kitchen.

  
Letting out a sigh of relief, Ben resigned to his bath. He hooked his fingers under the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head swiftly. He didn't throw it to the pile right away, instead looking at just how ratty it had become in his journey. What was once a nice forest green shirt was now faded; drab from exposure to sunlight. There was discoloration at the collar and armpits from hours of sweaty hiking, as well as faded stains that splatters the hem and stomach of his shirt. Ben blushed deeply, tossing the shirt down into the pile. Hopefully George wouldn't notice those. He peeled off his pants and boxers, feeling uneasily exposed even in the confines of the bathroom. He quickly padded to the tub, hands covering himself meekly as he did so.

  
Never had a shower felt so indulgent. The first contact under the spray sent waves of pleasure down his spine. Warm, comforting heat enveloped him, steam rising from the water hitting the cool base of the tub. It was a luxuriously deep tub, coming up past Ben’s shoulders as he sat up straight in it. There were two shower heads pointed at him, each pampering him endlessly. Ben felt a moan escape his throat. It had been so so long.

  
He was glad this wasn't a bath, because immediately he could see the grime start to trickle off him. It ran to the drain, a dingy stream circling and disappearing down the grate. Glancing around, Ben could see that George had left some necessities for him within reach: soap, a puffy sponge, shampoo, conditioner, as well as a fresh razor and cream next to a little fog proof mirror.

 

  
Ben was generous with the shampoo, massaging his fingers deep into his scalp, mentally picturing scrubbing out the last few weeks of strife. He shampooed twice, not satisfied with the clarity of the water from his first rinse. God, he was filthy. Bits of leaves stuck to the drain. Silt and dirt formed a scum ring around the white porcelain of the tub, and Ben splashed at it meekly in an attempt to wash it way. Yet with each passing minute he began to feel more like himself. Suds washed away from his body, Ben took the razor to his face, opting to clear the hair entirely. Rosy cheeks, flushed with heat, returned to his face. Still sallow and thin, but much less gray than only a short hour ago.

  
Shaved and scrubbed, Ben hoisted himself from the bath, wrapping up in a large towel. He stood dripping on the mat a minute, scared to crack open the door to retrieve his clothes. But he was still weak, and his jelly legs made the decision for him. Sinking to his knees, Ben crawled to the door. He reached up, opening it just a crack. Cool air rushed in from the door, and Ben spied the folded set of clothes. Without a sound he pulled them through the crack, shutting and locking the door immediately.

  
It was large, larger than Ben’s size for sure, but there was little option at this point. Ben was left with dark gray sweatpants, with a drawstring he used to strangle his waist. He pressed his legs close together, uneasy going commando in another man’s clothes. The shirt was an easier fit, though billowy on his slight frame. He rolled the sleeves to his elbows, only to shake them out again as a chill ran through him.

  
Outside the bathroom Ben could see a light on in the kitchen, soft clinking sounds echoing down the hall. Unsure of what to do next, Ben made his way towards the light, hands clasped nervously.

  
“Oh, I know, I know…”

  
Peeking around the corner Ben spied George at the kitchen table, hounds at his heels as he spooned food into four bowls. They whined eagerly, tiny nails tapping against the linoleum floor. “We’re all hungry, I know.” George mumbled, trying to part the sea of dogs long enough to put a dish down. Ben watched him warily. He seemed normal enough; hiker, dog enthusiast…It was obvious he'd been alone a while, or at least lives here alone. Ben didn't hear any other people, or see extra shoes. And the way he talked to his dogs reminded him of how Caleb’s uncle talked to his dog, carrying on one sided conversations as the lazy thing stretched out on the den floor.

  
George glanced up, catching Ben’s eye before he could duck back behind the corner. He looked startled, caught of guard as much as Ben was, but steadied himself quickly. “Ben!” The hounds turned, shuffling towards him curiously. George chuckled. “They, uh, they won't leave you alone until they meet you. Unless you can sleep through door scratching…”

  
Ben moved out of the darkness of the hallway, toes curling against the cold tile. The dogs were cute, gazing up at him with soulful brown eyes, and tails that hit the floor with little tap taps. George lay a hand on the outermost dog to the left.

  
“Mopsey” Then to the next, “Tipsy”, “Cloe”, and then to the little runt “Captain.”

  
Ben smiled, Captain wagging his tail excitedly in response. “Hi…wow…” He reached out a hand, letting Captain sniff at him, a little pink tongue darting out for a welcome lick. The others followed suit, sniffing and snuffling until George interjected once more.

  
“Ok, ok. Bed time.” He whistled shortly, and the pups scrambled to the opposite room, doggy beds ready. Ben straightened up, ready to follow George to whatever place was set up for him. George motioned for him to follow, and he did so just as swiftly as the dogs had. “I heated the guest room. All your stuff will be washed by tomorrow.” He said, flicking on the light. It was a cozy room; one queen bed piled with a quilt and pillows, a cushioned bench by a large window that overlooked the dark moonlit property, and a small dresser. This was definitely someone’s grandmother’s house.

  
“I hope this is ok. I'm right down the hall if something is wrong.” George said. Ben mumbled a few thanks, embarrassment returning to him. There was an awkward pause, neither of them able to think of a proper send off to this situation.

  
“Thank you...for this…” Ben said meekly, gesturing to the bed. George’s expression was soft, and he struggled to look Ben in the eye.

  
“It’s nothing, really. You're just...too young to die. Get some rest, sleep as long as you need. Goodnight, Benjamin.”

  
Ben nodded, heat pricking his cheeks. “Goodnight, George.” He didn't move again until the door clicked shut, and even then it took a few moments. Painful, awful moments where his joints ached, but he couldn't will them to move. _Too young_. He felt ancient, his stint in the wilderness sapping the very essence of his youth. _Too young to die._

  
The mattress was soft, and Ben felt like he was easing onto a cloud. He shouldn't sleep here, he thought. He should sleep on the floor in the corner, somewhere hard and easy to escape. But he had sold so many of his fears so far, and this was as good a way to die as any, right? Isn't this what old people wanted? To die in their beds… _too young to die._

  
Ben rolled over, tears seeping into his pillow. George was an idiot. There was no such thing as too young to die.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

His sleep was dreamless, and for that Ben was thankful. The weight of his body sunk deep into the mattress, the pillow case smelling faintly of lavender. It stirred a feeling of homesickness in him, vivid images of sleepovers at Grandma’s in his mind. The corners of his mouth turned up, smiling sleepily at the memory of those mornings, where he and Samuel would rise late to the smell of pancakes. 

Opening his eyes, however, ripped the smile from his face. He was here; wherever  _ here _ was. A small digital clock sat on the nightstand; 2:57 pm. Good God he had been here all day. George must have picked him up around 9-10. He was most certainly asleep by 11. His joints popped noisily as he sat up in bed, ears straining to hear something.  _ Anything.  _ It was deathly quiet. No cars, no noise. 

Something white caught his attention; a little note slipped under his door, neat handwriting scrawled across it. Ben rose, feet padding across the cool hardwood to retrieve the message. It read;

_ Ben, _

_ I didn't want to disturb you. When you wake, come find me, and we’ll get you something to eat. Your pack has been washed. Feel free to shower again if you need to.  _

_ George _

Ben folded the note up, retreating back towards the warmth of the bed. Come find him? Ben felt uneasy. He'd rather stay put. Stick to the portion of the house he's familiar with. Besides it didn't sound like  _ anyone _ was in the house, not even the dogs. 

And as if on cue the sound of yipping rose through the air outside the window. Curiously, Ben parted the curtains. There was George, along with all four hounds, strolling back towards the house. They nipped at his heels, barking and frolicking as George strode casually across the grass. Ben pulled the curtain back a bit more to watch as he approached the window below. The movement must have alerted George, because he looked up and threw a wave to Ben. 

Ben shut the curtains quickly and dove back into bed. He didn't know why it scared him so. He seemed  _ normal. _ He should be grateful, not skittish. But something still felt off. No one, not even his father’s most devout friends, were this generous. They all had motives, using the guise of a good and pious person to serve their needs. Too many times the Tallmadge family had hosted folks for dinner, said grace with them, and then learned of their scandalous secrets the next week. Ben wondered just what secrets George kept in this antiquated little home. 

Barking and skittering entered the house, four curious pups digging at the gap below his door. They whined, unable to reach their newly awake guest. The noise dispersed only when George moved up the hallway. “ _ Enough.” _ Quiet. Calm and still, just as the night before. Ben squirmed uneasily at the command, and the memory of how he blindly followed it last night. 

There was a light tap on the door, and a pause. “Benjamin?” Ben contemplated not responding, feigning sleep--but he'd already been seen. It took a moment to find his voice.

“Yes?”

George didn't try to turn the knob, and Ben wondered if he should let him in. “I’m going to start on supper.” He said earnestly. “You don't have to sit with me. I can bring in a tray.” 

Something about that made Ben falter. Afterall, it was George’s kindness and generosity that spared his life, and he didn't even want to know the man he took in? Not even a little curious? Or maybe it wasn't curiosity, but caution. An opportunity to let Ben know he wasn't a prisoner; that there was some sense of agency here. Ben would eat tonight, whether alone or with George, and it would be filling. It sorely reminded him of watching  _ Beauty and the Beast,  _ where Belle is commanded to dine with her captor; only Ben  _ wasn't  _ required to come to dinner...he could stay here and cry if he so pleased. 

“That's ok…” Ben said, before rushing to clarify. “I can eat out there.” He waited for the response, waited to see if George sounded particularly excited to draw him from his room.

“Ok then.” No change. “Is there anything you can't eat? Allergies?” Ben shook his head, only to stupidly realize that didn't work here.

“No, I'm good. Thanks.” 

“I’ll fetch you when it's ready. Unless you need to freshen up. Bathroom’s yours, your pack is outside the door. Ok?” 

“Ok. Thanks” 

George's footsteps faded away, and Ben crept out of bed to retrieve his things. Just as George had said, his pack was fresh and clean. George had thrown the whole thing in the washer, along with his soiled clothes. Taking them into the bedroom, Ben sat on the bed and folded them lazily. Clear of sweat and dirt they didn't look much better. The sun had faded most of the colors on his tshirts, there was permanent discoloration on the pits of several light tees, along with a uniform trend of tiny snag holes and frayed hems. Ben picked the least ratty ensemble to wear to dinner; a dark blue shirt that still looked blue, and long cargo pants. He changed immediately, relishing the feeling of fresh boxers that weren't hastily scrubbed in a stream. These were soft, and dryer warm. 

As the smell of food wafted under the door, Ben became more anxious. If he had played his cards smarter, he could have still pretended to be an unfortunate hiker on a trip. George would know he was missing, and that people were likely to go looking for him. But in his distress he had revealed he was homeless; a population so invisible no one would think twice about his disappearance. Especially not out here, so far from Long Island. Ben practiced questions in his mind, carrying on potential conversations that ended with one of three things.

  1. he's sent back to Setauket 
  2. he's killed
  3. He's not pressed to comment



Options 1 and 2 feel just as heavy in Ben’s mind, and he wonders if dying here on the back roads is any different than in his bathtub. Option 3 is a long shot, but George had been respectful so far, and maybe he wouldn't press further. 

Sooner than he expects it another knock taps on the wood of the door. “Food’s ready.” Ben calls out a little  _ ok _ , checking himself out in the vanity mirror before heading out of the bedroom. He's shabby, still, hair just a touch too long that he always kept it, but it’ll do. Turning the knob, Ben could smell the dinner on the stove. Whatever George was cooking, it was good. Good enough to send Ben down the hallway faster than he wished to. 

“Sleep well?” George asked. The table was small, but set nicely. Two small dishes of sides were already out, and George busied himself cutting something up on a cutting board, his back turned to Ben. Ben hummed, leaning to try and peek around George’s frame at the meal. Some sort of meat. It was juicy.  _ Please don't let it be human… _

Ben let out a little sigh of relief as George edged aside, a pot roast sitting on the wooden board. It looked really good, Ben had to admit. If it  _ were _ human he'd probably still take a bite…

“Hand me that plate?” George asked. Ben did so, hovering awkwardly behind George as a thick piece was placed on his plate. Ben felt his stomach growl, eyes fixed on his meal as his host went back to the oven pan to drizzle gravy and onions on top. “Plate’s hot.” Ben nodded, taking his plate to the table. He wasn't sure which seat was his. Sure, there were only two chairs, but he was a guest...and Ben knew that the longer you were alone, the more things became “your spot”. 

George glanced back, catching Ben hovering by the tiny kitchen table. “There's no assigned seating, Ben, you can just sit. It's ok.” Ben laughed nervously, his eyes darting to the floor. Scuff marks, a few, under the chair legs of the seat closest to George. That was his seat. Ben chose the opposite chair, noting that the floor here was smooth and shiny. 

He waited patiently as George prepared his own plate, watching each movement carefully. George’s plate was set down, and he turned away briefly to the sink, grabbing two glasses. The water ran, giving each a thorough rinse before being placed at the table. Then he opened the fridge, taking out two water bottles. He placed one close to him, and Ben could see the seal on the cap still unbroken.  _ It's not drugged. _

Ben didn't know what he expected to happen when George finally settled at the table; if George would interrogate him with personal questions, or make some polite small talk that ignored his unseemly state. What he didn't expect was to feel so exposed. In the short time Ben had spent with George he never had to look directly at him. He caught glimpses through windows and reflections. He maintained eye contact with his boots or the floor. His eyes grazed over him quickly as he examined his situation. But  _ right now _ there was no where to look. It was just  _ George _ . 

It wasn't an unpleasant sight. In fact he was quite handsome; square set jaw, strong brow and kind eyes. It suited him in the most flattering way. Ben broke his gaze to spoon some mashed potatoes onto his plate. “This looks really good. Thank you.” Ben said. Hopefully he could control the narrative by starting it.

“Let's just hope it tastes good.” George chuckled, lips turning up in a shy smile.  _ Oh...his smile is crooked... _ Ben caught himself before a glob of mash slid off his fork. He scolded himself internally. This was the kind of charming thing that got kids like him killed. He chewed his food just a tad longer than usual, looking to taste something off to confirm his suspicions. Nothing. Just the savory taste of meat and onions. It was  _ really good.  _

They ate in silence for a while, letting only the sounds of clinking plates pass between them. Ben kept his attention at his plate, but was forced to glance up when a new coughing fit arose. He flashed a quick thumbs up to George, signaling he was ok before being asked. George silently handed him the water bottle, eying him closely.

“I know you said no doctors….”

Ben looked up quickly, panicked.

“No hospitals. I know. I went ahead and called in a favor from a good friend of mine. He's a physician, and he makes home visits. He can check you out and make sure that cough isn't too serious.” 

Ben blushed, wiping away some of the tears from his fit. “I don't want to be a bother--”

“You're not, honestly. This doctor and I go way back. He’s discrete, and very kind.” 

Ben nodded, and mumbled a few polite thank yous, wondering just what George did that required a discrete, home-visit doctor often. A moment later George asked the question Ben had anticipated.

“If you don't mind me asking, how long have you been on your own?”

Ben swallowed thickly, pushing the pot roast around his plate with his fork. “A few weeks.” He felt George’s eyes on him, a heavy weight he couldn't shake as he focused on his plate. 

“We don't have to talk about it if you don't--”

“No, it's fine. I, uh, don't have any family. Couldn't do work and school to stay afloat. Then I couldn't work to stay dry. Now this.” Ben hoped his terse tone was convincing. George returned to his plate, cheeks pink.

“I'm sorry.” 

Ben felt a twinge of shame, unable to ignore the hurt in George’s voice. He cleared the last of the food on his plate, feeling it hit his stomach with a heaviness that made his gut twist with guilt. “It's...ok. It's relieving.” George looked up from his plate, meeting Ben’s gaze. Ben cleared his throat. “I just wasn't good enough. This... _ this _ makes more sense.”

The sense of fear Ben had felt earlier melted away as he watched George’s reaction. It was kind, and soft, with a touch of sadness that made Ben believe he would reach his hand across the table to comfort him. But he kept his distance, hands clasped in his lap, plate abandoned. “Sometimes the set path isn't the right one.” He said. “And worth can't be measured by your capacity to tread that set path…” 

George rose from his seat, clearing the plates from the table. “I have a little work to do. If you're tired you can go back to your room. Or there's some books in the living room.” Ben nodded, balling up his napkin nervously as a barrage of images returned to him. 

“What, uh, what kind of work do you do?” 

Ben waited for it to be something worrisome. Something involving sharp tools, dead things, or corrosive vats his corpse could be stuffed into. George turned to him, smiling brightly. 

“ I bake.”

Ben faltered. “You bake?”

George reached on top of the fridge, pulling out an order sheet. “It's nothing really. I have a little home run baking business. Pies, pastries, that sort of thing.” 

Ben looked over the sheet. It was an order due tomorrow. A few apple pies and turnovers, and a cherry-blueberry tart. “It’ll take up a bit of the night, but it'll be fresh for a baby shower tomorrow.” Ben’s interest was piqued, and he watched as George pulled some fresh fruit from the refrigerator. George turned to him, tapping the bag of apples. “You can help wash if you want. You might just need to wear gloves or a mask due to your cough.”

Ben blushed. He wanted to help, really, but the mention of his cough brought a reflexive tickle to his chest. “I don't want to get your clients all sick…” George hummed in agreement, running the water and rinsing some berries.

“Tomorrow then, if you're up to it. After the doctor takes a look at you.”

“Yeah...tomorrow. That would be nice.” 

They weren't alone for long before the familiar skittering sound of paws made their way to the kitchen, the hounds standing up on their hind legs to knead at Ben with their paws. George laughed. “I guess nap time is over. I tried to tucker them out earlier, but they're too smart for me.” 

Captain couldn't reach Ben’s legs, paws flailing and he jumped up for attention. Ben scooped him up, and placed him on his lap. He truly was he runt of the litter, able to sit neatly in Ben’s lap, nose sniffing curiously at his dark blue shirt. “You're so tiny.” Ben whispered. He reached to scratch behind captain’s ear, enjoying the way his tiny leg twitches and kicked with glee. 

George set the clean berries on the table, reaching next for the apples. “He was even tinier before. We thought he wouldn't make it. He was on formula for a few weeks until he got fatter.” Captain broke away from the scratching, licking Ben’s hand appreciatively. “He likes you, that's good. He can be an ankle biter if you cross him.” Ben laughed, wondering if any pup this tiny could be such a menace. 

“You said ‘we’. Is there anyone else here?”

George sighed. “No, I live alone. Just one of my suppliers at the market found this litter abandoned. He knew I had space, and asked if I wanted them. I couldn't say no once I saw them.” He nudged one of the dogs (Tipsy) with his toe, preventing him from reaching the fruit. “I have a soft spot for puppy eyes.” Ben admired the fine blush tinting his cheeks. He looked happy,  _ truly _ happy, when talking about them. It looked as though his dogs were all he had. It was humbling watching George slide the dogs around with his feet, absentmindedly smiling as they hopped and jumped up on his legs. Cloe, the particularly chubby one, gave up and lay flat on the tile, where she was slowly slid across by George’s foot.

“My chubby puppy.” He cooed, momentarily forgetting he wasn't alone. Ben smiled, firing off a short laugh that made George turn pink.

“I need to work.” He said, returning back to the table. He whistled sharply, and the dogs ceased their frolicking. “Bed. Now.” And they were alone again, with four pups sitting lazily in their beds across the house. 

It was spellbinding. Ben let himself get lost in the moment, the house silent save for the clinking of utensils as George gentle folded the ingredients into each other. He watched in silent awe as he ran a knife along the thin pastry sheet until it lay in perfectly uniform ribbons. And then they latticed, cross weaving over the scrumptious pie filling until the first apple pie was complete. George’s fingers were surprisingly nimble despite how large they were, and they pinched even the most delicate of pastries without tearing the fragile dough.

“How long have you been doing this?” Ben asked as George started sugaring a tart. He paused.

“Oh, a long time. Fifteen years? Just about.” 

He had gentle hands. Ben liked that. He  _ trusted  _ that. It was a stupid thing to put his faith in, but what else did he have? He felt fragile and soft, like dough. He had spread himself thin and begun to tear. He wanted to be whole again. And maybe he'd never be whole again, but he appreciated having the gaps pinched close, temporarily saving him from falling apart. 

Before long there were pies cooling on the rack, and George was tidying up the kitchen. “After I box these I'm heading to bed.” Ben snapped out of his daze, whirling around towards the clock. 11 pm. He had been watching George for  _ hours.  _ He barely even noticed the sun slip behind the tree line, replaced by the inferior glow of the kitchen light. 

“I'm sorry, I didn't know it got so late” Ben apologized. George waved it off, unspooling some bakers twine. 

“Not a problem. It flew by”

And so did their goodnights. They quietly washed up, mumbling a few things before parting to their separate spaces. Ben settled back into bed, the heat pricking at the radiator. His pillow still smelled of lavender, but as he let his mind drift he couldn't help but focus on the smell of spiced apples and powdered sugar. Warm. Homey. Something Ben had rarely experienced even back in Setauket. It seemed real here. But Ben tried not to buy into it, no matter how tempting it was. This was not his home. There were no homes for people like him. Only stations that smelled of sugar and spice.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Ben’s morning with George had been much like their evening; short, polite. They exchanged pleasantries over breakfast-- an abundance of food Ben could hardly wait to scarf down. Somewhere between eggs, bacon, and the syrupy taste of pancakes George had mentioned his doctor friend again. It seemed he would be dropping by that afternoon, on George’s request, to take a look at his cough. The cough had been nothing but a menace all night, causing him to hack and heave awake several times. There was no doubt the hacking woke George, and Ben, embarrassed as he was, was eager to get it looked at if it meant not disturbing his host. 

After the dishes were cleared, Ben slinked off to the couch, settling into the worn cushions warily. He’d been offered use of the living room already, but sitting here felt more open and exposed than his neat little bedroom. The living room was wide, with two couches perpendicular to one another. A large comfy chair, its upholstery a collage of faded pink roses, sat crammed in a corner. There was no tv, just a small piano, a bookshelf, and four very friendly dogs. They seemed to linger in this room the most. 

From his spot on the couch Ben could watch George tidy in the kitchen, his back to him as he scrubbed the pans. Ben felt a pang of guilt watching him, knowing that he must have risen early after a late night of baking just to feed him. And here Ben was, lazily sitting on the couch with Captain in his lap, scratching the pup behind his little ears.    


He was jolted from his thoughts as the doorbell rang, heart racing as he realized he didn't even hear the crunch of wheels on the gravel leading up to it. George set down a plate, drying his hands in a dish towel as he headed for the door. He threw Ben a quick smile--one that was supposed to ease the look of dread on his face. 

“Nathaniel, come on in.”

The man who entered was not what Ben had been expecting. He was rotund, in a jolly sort of way, with a kind face, and soft eyes rimmed with glasses. He turned sideways to enter the home, holding his doctor’s bag close to his body. Ben tried not to look nervous as the man George called Nathaniel offered a few hushed words. 

“Has he told you anything more?” He whispered, his eyes narrowing with concern. George shook his head shortly, arms crossed over his chest. Ben tucked his knees to his chest on the couch. Unease bloomed in his stomach, it's tendrils stoking a cold sweat. He didn't like being talked about like this… George must have sensed his eyes on him, because he turned and gently urged Nathaniel inside towards the living room.

“Ben, this is a good friend of mine, Nathaniel Sackett. He’ll be taking a look at you today.” He said, voice easy and light. Ben nodded, unfolding his legs and sitting at the edge of the couch. Sackett moved through the living room lightly, quickly picking up the cozy chair from the corner and moving it in front of the couch. 

“Well now, son, you don't look as bad as George described.” He said. Ben laughed, smiling down at his own hands. He must have looked god awful. Sackett smiled back. It was kind, polite. The kind of nice bedside manner you'd expect of a pediatrician. Pleasant enough not to scare the children. “Now then. What's been bothering you.”

“I have a cough.” 

Ben went through his symptoms, hands clasped in his lap. Sackett nodded thoughtfully, opening his bag and rifling through it. He responded in little  _ mhms _ and  _ I see _ s until he fished out his stethoscope. He then turned to George. “George, a little privacy if you will. The boy doesn't need supervision.” George blushed, caught hovering like a worrisome parent. He left the living room, calling the dogs to bring them outside. When the door clicked shut, Sackett spoke again. 

“Do you have a name.”

“Benjamin.” 

“ _ Just _ Benjamin?”

Ben swallowed thickly. Sackett was more probing than George. His kind face served as a way to trip him up. He tried to push the panic from his gut and remember his story.

“ _ Brewster. _ Benjamin Brewster.” 

Sackett nodded. “Well then, Mr.Brewster, I'm going to do a once over to make sure there isn't anything we need to take you to a clinic for. I promise this will be quick.” He instructed Ben to remove his shirt, and checked his lungs. Ben sat patiently as Sackett felt his glands, checked his eyes, his ears. There was little conversation past “deep breath” and “any discomfort?”. Ben was grateful. It was easier to focus on the checkup than his story. 

After it was all through, Sackett placed his tools back in the bag. “There's nothing short of a miracle here. George says you were out there for weeks. I have no doubt you were caught in those horrible storms we had a few weeks back. That you made it out with a slight cough and a cold is...baffling.” He said, waving the last word off into the air. 

“ _ However, _ you’re thin as a stick. I suggest you stay here and clear your plate while you recover from this cold.” Sackett took notice of the way Ben flinched at the mention of staying, and eyed him warily. “I see you've had his pot roast.” He handed Ben his shirt before lifting himself from the chair.

“I assure you George has better dishes than that. And he's kind.  _ Worrisome, _ but kind.” He looked around. “Do you mind showing me where he put you up? Just to see if there's a draft or something that will hinder your recovery.” 

“Yeah, sure.” 

Ben led him to his room, awkwardly standing in the corner as Sackett walked the perimeter of the room, hand outstretched. “Good man. He's insulated it.” Sackett chimed, an amused smile on his face. “I stayed here not two years ago and almost froze to death.” He chuckled. “Never stayed the night again.” Ben smiled, a little at ease--but that passed as Sackett approached his pack, which was sitting on the bed. 

“I'm sorry, son.” He sighed, placing his hands on the pack, palms flat in some show of compassion. “Seeing youth like yourself is always painful for old timers like us. Forgive us if we’re a little invasive.” He picked the pack up, looking at it thoughtfully.

“You're lucky to be alive. George told me all you had was a backpack and a sleeping bag, and seeing it...it's wretched. It puts us all to shame knowing you're out here fighting alone.” 

Ben didn't know how to respond. He kept his back pressed to the wall, eyes on his shoes. “It's ok, sir.” 

He felt guilty. By all accounts he shouldn't  _ have _ to fight alone. He had a warm bed, a sturdy roof, back in Setauket. He gave it up. He's not fighting. Not the same way others were. But home wasn't  _ home _ , and roof or not he would still  _ feel _ homeless. 

“Don't be sorry, son. Just rest up. I can be back anytime if that cough persists. In the meantime...eat. George’s pot roast may be lacking, but his baking isn't.” 

Ben laughed as Sackett clapped a hand on his shoulder. “It wasn't all bad.” The man huffed, and rolled his eyes.

“Give it time.” 

The side door to the house creaked open, the skittering of paws returning to the house. “Nathaniel?” George called, peeking into the living room.

“In here, George.” He called back, motioning him to hurry up. George met with them quickly, worry crossing his face. “At ease. Heavens, George. He's got a cold.” Sackett sighed. “Bed rest. Plain and simple. And  _ feed _ him. The next breeze might take him with it.” 

George nodded, brows still close with concern. “But apart from that he’s--”

“Healthy. I suggest he stays indoors until he recovers.” Sackett said. There was an awkward pause that lingered after that statement. A heavy, stifling silence that spoke what all were afraid to mention. What to do with Ben when his health has returned? Ben felt his stomach flip. He’d be turned loose. Once George’s hands were cleansed of him, it was only a matter of time before the cold got him again. Sitting here in the house, looking at George’s cheeks, pink from cold, Ben knew winter was coming. And he'd be right in the thick of it. 

George broke the silence. “So then he just needs a little break. That's not bad at all.” He cleared his throat. “Thank you, Nathaniel. Your services, as always, are most appreciated.”

Sackett looked over his wire rimmed glasses at George. “As is your call. We’ll be in touch.” And with that he waved himself off, walking beside George to the front door. Ben followed them a few steps, uncertain but curious. Sackett passed a few more words to George, his tone hushed and concerned. George’s tone was distraught. 

“ _ No, no it's not---” _

“ _ George.” _

There was a long silence, Sackett staring disapprovingly over his glasses, face set in a stern frown. George sighed and nodded. “ _ I know.” _ With that, Sackett left the house, with only a nod. George turned back into the living room, hands in his pockets as he padded across the hardwood. 

“I have some baking to do. You're welcome to read or watch tv if you'd like.” He said, motioning to the tv in the corner. Ben toed at the floor.

“Thank you.”

They fell back into comfortable silence, George gravitating to the kitchen where he prepared the table, Ben to the tall bookcase in the foyer. The selection in books was…interesting. A few token culinary books, a handful of cheesy supermarket paperback romances, two hefty textbooks on international law, a very well worn French to English dictionary, and a small collection of fiction and history books. While it wasn't uncommon for someone to have a wide taste in books, Ben found this hoard a little too wide. It was as if there were three, maybe four, different people using the shelf. So George lived alone, in a house that didn't quite fit him, with books that weren't quite his…

Ben plucked one of the international law textbooks off the shelf, partially out of interest, but mostly to gauge a reaction from George. He walked back to the couch, settling in with the cover of the book square in front of his face, and began to read. It took a few minutes for Ben to figure how he would get this reaction, rearranging himself on the couch so that he could see George in a mirror by the kitchen. He flipped through the pages, quietly glancing up between paragraphs to study George. 

Busy baking. Not really any attention being paid to Ben on the couch. But this would only take a moment, a short glance that would clue Ben in on who owned this textbook. George, before his culinary career? A son perhaps? 

Ben had made it through the preface when it finally happened. George dusted his flour coated hands off over the table, reaching to check something off his order sheet. He spied the book, its cover masking Ben’s face (as well as his watchful eye). His gaze was soft, lips almost curling into a tender smile before the whole thing slipped away to something more bittersweet. His gaze lowered to the table, hands trembling as he checked off something else. It was over. 

Ben felt rattled by it. This belonged to someone he knew closely. A pang of guilt wracked him, and he moved to place the textbook back on the shelf. This was an awful, manipulative thing to do. George was his  _ host _ . A man kind enough to take him in and give him care. In his suspicion Ben had poked a sore spot in his heart. He thought about his own pack. His journal and picture of Nate. How awful it would be if someone waved the picture around nonchalantly, trying to draw some reaction from him. Hot tears stung his eyes as he slipped the book in its proper place, feeling as though he’d dirtied it.

“Were you a law student?”

Ben whirled around, heart leaping from his chest. “No...I was studying history.” He mumbled, ashamed to even meet George’s eye. George was slipping some pastries into the oven, the heat wafting and coloring his cheeks pink.

“That's impressive. I never went to college. I couldn't afford it. Where did you go?” 

_ Yale _

_ “ _ City College.” 

George closed the oven and walked to the table, a bowl of blueberry filling sitting prettily atop it. “I can see how that catches up to you. Do you miss it?” He asked, taking out something from a bag. 

“Um, yeah a bit--what is that?” Ben asked, detailed by the item in his hands. It was a large syringe, but not medical---mostly plastic and comical looking. George smiled brightly, uncovering something from under a tin foil tray.

“The fun stuff.” 

Donuts. Ben laughed, feeling relieved to see George smile. He approached the table cautiously. “Donuts and a syringe? That's weird.” 

George filled the blunt tip with blueberry filling before piercing the donut and pushing the plunger. Ben watched the soft pastry swell with sweet filling, and the little bit that threatened to dribble out as George removed the syringe. He was surprised when George handed it to him, napkin placed beneath it. 

“Me?”

“Yes, you. And you can fill the next one if you’d like.” Ben liked that idea, and bit into the pastry. It was sweet and soft, dusted with sugar that crunched in his teeth as he tore through dough and filling. It was warm and comforting. Ben wiped a dab of filling from his lip as George offered him the syringe.

“What about dinner?”

“If you're still hungry after this, we’ll order out.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More benwash and prompt stuff on my tumblr @grumblebee-trilogy! Feedback is always appreciated.


	5. Chapter 5

The week trudged along, with Ben following a set routine. Ben would wake, sometimes at 8am, sometimes at 5am, but he wouldn't leave his room until 8:30. Somewhere in his mind he decided if he were to continue his stay with George, then at least be predictable. It did give Ben the opportunity to learn about George, even through the wood of the door as he sat tucked in bed.

There would be sounds of rousing. Footsteps, the shower, humming. Lots of skittering as the pups were taken out to the yard. Ben would peek out the window, watching four little blobs dart around in the rosy light of dawn. And he would watch George, who was standing vigilant as his dogs roamed the property. Stragglers were reined in with a short whistle, one George rarely used. The dogs preferred to be beside him, running circles around his legs as he watched the sunrise with his hands in his pockets. 

Most mornings George woke at 4, and Ben could hear other cars enter the driveway. There was shuffling from the kitchen as George handed off his goods. Ben later learned these early morning deliveries were for the cafes in town. 

The personal bakery orders were delivered by George himself. Those happened after lunch, where George would save him something sweet as he rushed out the door. He'd be gone an hour, maybe two, before rolling through the door to prepare dinner. It was predictable and stable, and Ben found himself easing into George’s little bubble. 

Today marked one week since his arrival, and his cough was merely a tickle. It bubbled up every so often, earning a concerned glance from George, but a quick thumbs up put that to rest.

“It's much better than it was” Ben said, cutting into the baked chicken on his plate. “It doesn't wake me anymore.” George hummed, spooning more string beans onto his plate.

“That's good. I’ll inform Nathaniel that you're feeling much better.” 

What Ben truly enjoyed about George was that he rarely asked questions. Their meals consisted of light conversation, George recounting his day and telling him a little about his work as they ate. Ben, in return, eagerly asked about the various aspects of baking. He had learned about pastries, George’s most disastrous fruit tart, tempering chocolate, all in the matter of a week. George knew only this about Ben:

He was young

He was homeless 

He “went” to City College

For some reason it hurt Ben to keep it that way. More often than not George would share an anecdote, and Ben would jump at the opportunity to mention Caleb, or Anna...or Nate. Yet it always fell short of his lips, his breath unable to push it past his teeth and into the open.

_ Too much information _ .

That's what his gut told him. That George would piece together that he was a runaway, and he'd endure some hideously awkward conversation about how a parent’s love is  _ unconditional.  _ The word made his stomach turn. He knew better than that. He’s  _ seen _ worse than that. So instead Ben swallowed his words, nearly choking on his memories, and asked about donuts. 

After the plates had been cleared, George took out his new order sheet, looking it over with tired eyes. Just glancing over the clipboard, Ben could see the list was extensive. He felt a pang of guilt, heart wrenching at the idea that George would be up well past midnight, only to wake at 4am to send off his morning rush. 

“Is there anything I can do to help?” 

George looked up, a little startled. “You want to?” He asked. Ben felt his cheeks flush hot under George’s gaze.

“I'm not...I've never really  _ baked _ but...maybe I can help you speed things up. Prep work?” He croaked, unable to keep eye contact with George. It was a silly thing to offer, like a parent who could no longer help their child with homework. The most he could do was measure ingredients, lest he slow George down even more. 

George lay out a mixing bowl. “You're well enough to help. You're on pie duty.” He chimed, setting out some apples. 

“I've never--”

“It's  _ fine _ , Benjamin. I’ll walk you through it.” Ben approached the table, and watched as George peeled the skins off until a mound of green peels littered the cutting board. “Nice and easy, see? Chop these into ½” chunks. Then put them aside in this bowl ok?”

Ben picked up the knife. “How many apples?” George threw a look towards a large canvas bag on the counter. 

“All of those.”

“Holy shit.”

George laughed, clearing space for himself to work on the dough. “Luckily I've got help. This will fly by in no time.” 

They worked silently, with only the click of the knife against the cutting board keeping them company. One apple became two, then four, then ten. Ben focused on the board, and the glimmer of the knife as it came across the fruit. He let the steady clicking clear his mind, giving himself over to the mindless task of chopping. Every so often the gentle roll of George’s hand would enter his peripheral, knuckles kneading into the mound of dough.

Ben paused, his knife poised as his eyes watched those careful hands. He watched the way George’s wrists rolled, broad hands in a loose fist, the dough beneath cradling the impression of his muscles. He moved smoothly, with a practiced hand that displayed years of work. Ben’s own hands felt numb and clumsy by comparison. The knife felt unwieldy and heavy, and his nails dug into the white flesh of the apple as he struggled to keep a steady hand. 

“Excellent work, Ben.” 

Ben blushed scraping the last of the chunks into the bowl, mumbling a few thanks. George dusted the flour from his hands, smiling brightly. “And now the rest.” He took out a few ingredients, doing the math in his head. 

“Lemon juice” he said, handing it to Ben to pour in. “Sugar.” A bowl was passed over, and Ben laughed as he dumped it into the fruit chunks. George smiled, adding a few more things to the mix as the sugar started to clump. 

“Now all there is to stir. Mix it up well.” 

Ben picked up a spoon, digging into the large bowl in front of him. He turned a spoonful over carefully, avoiding the rim. Meanwhile, George had already rolled out his dough, lining the bottom of a few tins. Ben churned at the apple filling, arms aching as he tried his best to incorporate it. The pressure mounted as George rolled out a second sheet of dough, expertly cutting it into strips. 

George looked up at Ben, watching as he struggled with the bowl. Ben huffed, arms burning pitifully. “The bottom, it's still just apples. All the sugar and stuff is on top and I can’t-- I’m sorry, I --”

George moved around the table, shushing Ben gently. “Not a problem. That bowl is bigger than you, let's be honest.” He said, wiping the flour from his hands on his jeans. Ben tried not to notice the broad hand prints on his thighs, and focused on his bowl. 

“Here. Let’s lift it.” George said. Ben stiffened as George came up behind him, arms coming around him to lift the bowl with ease. Ben kept his grip on the bowl, letting George guide it until it pressed against his chest. “Just cradle it like so. Like you're holding a baby.” He said, moving Ben’s arm to prop the bowl up.

His hands were warm, thumbs brushing lightly against his skin as he repositioned the bowl. Ben’s heart shattered. Had it been  _ that  _ long since he had last been touched by someone? That  _ this _ small gesture set him on fire and filled him with a longing to be held. And by a man he hardly knew? 

Just as soon as it happened, it ended, and the warmth of George’s touch retreated. Ben cleared his throat, and threw his effort into mixing the filling. George watched him, hand poised under the bowl to keep the weight steady in Ben’s arms.

“Good. That's good. I think it's ready.” 

The filling was poured out, and the pie crusts weaved over it. A few minutes later the pies sat pretty in the oven, the smell of cinnamon filling the air.

“That wasn't hard was it?” George asked, switching on the faucet. Ben laughed, taking the empty bowl to the sink.

“No...no it was fun. I liked it.” Ben said. He brushed against George as he placed the bowl into the sink, and wished it was by accident. Ben lingered a touch longer before the wave of guilt hit him, forcing him to retreat back to the table for more dishes. 

George was humming to himself, making room for Ben as he retrieved the rest of the dishes. “I'm glad. Maybe you could help me out tomorrow?” He asked. Ben nodded, balling his sticky hands into fists.

“I’d like that.” 

* * *

Ben found it hard to sleep that night. The cool touch of his pillow couldn't lull him to sleep, and the wool blanket couldn't keep the chill out. He curled up, tucking his knees to his chest. This was ridiculous. He has spent  _ weeks _ alone in the cold. He had woken up some nights and kicked the frost from his tent. But here, surrounded by pillows, tucked under the comforter, he was freezing. 

Ben wondered if George felt cold too. Or was he warm...just as his touch and personality had been since Ben entered his home. Warmth. That's what he was. The food. The smell of fresh pies. A flannel blanket in the front seat of his car. George radiated warmth. And Ben was a cold, stale little thing. A frozen husk, in an equally cold bed, waiting for the chill to set his bones. 

He shifted his weight for the tenth time, rearranging the blankets as best he could. He squeezed his eyes shut and thought of warmth. Of the kitchen. Of George’s hands. Of the way his cheeks flushed as George helped him stir. The subtle touch of skin, and warm breath on the back of his neck. Ben’s toes curled as he thought about leaning back into that heat, of letting himself thaw out and relax. Truly  _ relax.  _ Feel every muscle loosen and fall apart, until he was a malleable lump George could knead out with his knuckles. 

He moaned into the pillow with frustration, sleep hopelessly evading him. George would be up in a few hours, and Ben would wait patiently. In a few hours he would hear George rise and shower, send off his shipment and take the dogs out. He would wait his turn...wait until 8:30 before stepping out of the room and into George’s domain.

  
Ben pulled the blanket up to his nose, imaging himself sinking into the mattress. Melting away into a puddle, and seeping through the top sheet. He imagined being warmed by the sun, it's light tinting his cheeks pink. He imagined broad hands on his shoulders, kneading and pushing until he fell apart. He imagined being warm, and finally it invited sleep. A sound, heavy sleep, accompanied by dreams of hot pies, and warm breath on the back of his neck. 


	6. Chapter 6

He was full. For the first time in weeks Ben could sit with food on his plate and feel sick at the thought of another bite. Two weeks into his stay, one week after becoming George’s temporary prep cook, Ben was full. It was an odd feeling. His body had begun to relax, muscles chronically aching for miles and miles of hiking. None of that happened, of course, as he'd been laid up in a comfortable bed, stuffing his face as if he needed food more than air. It finally showed too, his gaunt features softening, cheeks rounding out to their normal rosy selves.

  
Ben examined himself in the mirror after his shower, towel wrapped around his waist. His stomach was pink from the heat, and if Ben pinched it he could feel the pudge returning. Sackett was right about being well fed here, and every day he stayed he became softer and stronger.

  
George had bought him new clothes as well. He came home one day, shopping bag in hand after dropping off a delivery. Nothing fancy, he didn't want to embarrass Ben. Inside the bag were a few pairs of sweatpants, something that would stay with him as he put his weight back on. There were also a few tshirts, their colors vibrant compared to Ben’s sun bleached collection. Packs of socks and new boxers as well were tucked under a large blue hoodie.

  
“I got you a medium, but everything here stretches a bit so you should be ok.” George said, placing the bag on Ben’s bed. “I hope that's ok.”

  
Ben hugged the hoodie to his chest, eager to slip it on and fight off the fall chill. “It's...it's really generous, George, I can’t--” George raised a hand, waving the comment away.

  
“Your old things are falling apart, and it's getting colder. Don't worry about it.” He said, hands on his pockets. “I'm starting dinner. We have pork cutlets tonight.”

  
Ben nodded. “Want me to make the potatoes this time?” He asked, poking fun at the charred mess of roasted red potatoes George tried to salvage the night before. George laughed, heading out into the hallway.

  
“I mean...only if you know how to burn them better”

  
He clicked the door shut, and Ben eagerly opened his new bag of clothes. Everything felt soft and new, and filled Ben with a sense of security he hadn't felt in years. He shimmied out of his old worn cargo pants, peeling off his equally old boxers. He shivered as he fished out the new pack of boxers, ripping the plastic hastily. The change was noticeable. He felt more himself than he had been in a long time. Fresh new clothes, warm and vibrant, if just a tad too large for him still; he felt like a kid on Christmas. He tightened the drawstring on his pants, his hips still too narrow for the waistband to rest upon neatly. The weight would come back, but hopefully before some awkward wardrobe malfunction.

  
The hoodie was larger than the rest of his clothes, sleeves coming past his fingertips. Ben balled his fists up in the fabric, feeling very small and cozy inside its bulk. It was like a hug, wrapping him up completely. Everything about this place wrapped him up gently, from his bed to his meals. And maybe, that's why Ben said “yes” that night at dinner.

  
George had been half way through a bowl of chili, rambling on about the new cafe that opened down on Main Street. “They need a large order. I'm already stretched thin, but the money goes a long way. Especially with, y’know--” he motioned to the four pups playing in the living room. “Those four.”

  
Ben smiled, watching Captain pin Tipsy. “Will you be able to manage?” He asked. George hummed, poking at his food nervously.

  
“Well...I was wondering...if you'd like to prolong your stay here.”

  
Ben blanched, almost dropping his fork. “Oh, I couldn't-- I'm not sick anymore…” he babbled. George put a hand up to silence him.

  
“Hear me out. I need help with these orders. _Desperately_. You're not sick, and I can pay you. We can put a little money away. You can leave whenever you please, but please...consider saving money and staying the winter. No rent, no utilities. Just a few hours work, and I’ll pay.”

  
Ben swallowed hard. It was generous. _Very_ generous. But what other prospects did he have? All his money was stolen. He had no plans except to continue moving south. What then? What would happen when he reached Georgia? He'd still be homeless...and the winter would be rough without someplace to live. As much as he hated to admit it, he liked being here. George was kind, and not bad company at all. And now he offered him the chance to get his future in order. George, with soft kind eyes and warm hands. George, who carried him into this place and off of death’s doorstep. How could he say no? How could he?

  
“I’d...like that.” Ben said, hoping his face didn't betray the excitement bubbling up in his chest. George’s eyes sparkled, and he moved to clear the table.

  
“I'm glad.” He said, cheeks pink. “Really glad, Ben. You're an excellent prep cook.” Ben bowed comically.

  
“The finest apple peeler. That's me.”

  
George laughed, “My thoughts exactly. You're one of a kind.”

  
Ben watched George’s back as he washed the dishes. His eyes followed the line of his shoulders, and the way he leaned his weight on one leg as he stood before the sink. The warmth in his chest spread to his cheeks, head swimming and tongue loose as it overtook him. The words found him, finally.

  
“I had lots of practice.” He said calmly. “My friend Caleb...his uncle owned an orchard. I spent lots of time apple picking.” He watched as George set a plate down, turning to face him.

  
“All those apples, and no pies?” He asked curiously. Ben shook his head, resting his cheek on his fist, smiling.

  
“Not one.”

  
George placed an order sheet in front of Ben. “Let's fix that. We’re making 8 tonight. You're peeling.” Ben crinkled his nose.

  
“Don't make me stir.”

  
“Oh, you're stirring.” 

* * *

  
Ben tried his hardest to bask in the warmth of his life with George. He melted into his new life, pouring all his efforts into baking. He sliced apples, washed berries, help make jams and preserves. He found himself remembering recipes without looking at the detailed note card George laid out for him. George would flip on the stereo, upbeat new wave flooding the house. Ben would laugh, watching his new friend cut pastry to some hard driving girl band, hands and face covered in flour.

  
At night, hands and clothes smelling of vanilla extract, they sat in the living room together. George read his paper, dogs lapping at his feet. Ben thumbed through one of the paperback fictions he found on George’s shelf, reading aloud whenever he found a particularly cringe worthy passage.

  
“I’ve seen the phrase _heaving bosoms_ at least three times. Whose book _is_ this?” Ben asked, flipping past a very awkward sex scene. George sighed.

  
“Oh, _Martha_. This used to be her house. Well...her dad’s but it was her’s by right.” Ben set the book down to listen. George had never mentioned a woman in his life. He had never mentioned anyone, really. Not a wife...a lover. Ben felt a sickly stone drop in his stomach, uneasy with learning these particular details. Anticipating lying about his own.

  
George looked around the living room wistfully. “It's all hers. We were best friends. Really close for a long time. I didn't have any money, or anything really. When she got married and moved away she left me the house. Her father threw a fit, but Martha wouldn't let him shoo me away.”

  
Ben relaxed, the pit of dread in his stomach dissolving. Somehow it relieved him to know he and Martha weren't a _thing_. Not that there was anything _wrong_ with George having had relationships, but for some odd reason Ben felt...jealous. Imagining some woman with him...on him...under him...twisted a knife into him. Ben shook the thought. He didn't even know if George was into men. And for that he was thankful. He'd rather remain ambiguous, and keep his own identity under wraps.

  
“She sounds lovely” Ben managed to say, before returning to his book. George smiled.

  
“She is.”

* * *

 

Ben awoke to the sound of a pained yell, one that sent him bolting out of bed and into the hall.

  
“George?!” He cried. He dashed to the kitchen, finding George hunched over the sink, one hand to his cheek. George spat a few times into the sink, but didn't respond. Ben padded over, glancing down into the sink. Blood, just a bit of it, spattered by the drain. The dribble still on George’s chin was tinged pink. Ben reached and placed a soothing hand on George’s back, feeling the heat beneath the thin tee.

  
“Are you ok?”

  
George straightened up, ripping a paper towel from the roll. “I broke a tooth.” He mumbled, too pained to open his mouth. “I think the nerve is exposed.” He dabbed at the blood on his chin, swearing under his breath.

  
Ben furrowed his brow. It was a quarter to five. The morning delivery vans would roll up soon. “Let me help you with be morning stuff. Then you can relax and call the dentist.” He soothed. George nodded.

  
“Yeah. Uh, just get the m-muffins out.” He said. George pressed his hand harder against his cheek. “And the croissants and danishes are by the door already in their packs.” Ben walked to the trays of muffins.

  
“Which are going where?”

  
“Trays one and two go to Main Street. Left pile. Right pile is Crescent Street. Tray three.” Ben nodded, placing the trays in their appropriate locations. George left the kitchen and unlocked the front door.

  
“I’ll bring them out. Can you go over the log and see if we can push back our baking tonight? I need that dentist.” Ben rushed to the table, searching the daily log for an opening. With the new cafe opening, and a few office parties coming up, Ben could manage only a three hour gap. He _could_ attempt some of this without George, and let him rest, but he wasn't confident enough to go solo without a trial run. It was time they just didn't have.

  
George returned, the vans leaving the property. “What's the news?” He asked, sitting across the kitchen table. Ben made a noise of concern.

  
“Two, three hours. That's enough for an appointment, right? All that emergency dental stuff will be taken care of right away.” Ben said. George nodded, and picked up the phone to make the appointment. It wouldn't come until 11. Ben went to the freezer, wrapping up an ice pack and placing it against George’s cheek. He winced, his hand moving over Ben’s to keep the pack in place. Nestled between the coolness of the ice pack, and the warmth of George’s hand, Ben felt...safe. He felt _safe_ touching him, caring for him. He wanted nothing more than to ease the ache in George’s jaw. To watch the pain melt away and his companion to return.

  
Gently, Ben urged George to his feet. “Let's get you to bed.” He said, reaching up to keep the ice pack in place. “Rest. I'll take the dogs out, and then you’ll get this fixed.” He guided George to his room, shooing the curious pups away with his foot as they approached the door. Just outside it, George placed his hand on the knob and paused.

  
“You’d better take the dogs now. They're getting antsy.” He mumbled. Ben nodded, resting his hand on George’s bicep, resisting the urge to give it a little squeeze.

  
“Do you need any more help?”

  
George shook his head. His expression was soft, with the same sadness Ben had observed that night he read the law book. “No, that isn't...it's fine.” He winced. “Thank you, Al--Ben.” Ben nodded him off, turning to take the dogs outside.

  
Walking four dogs isn't as easy as George makes it look. The hounds are wild, darting back and forth across the grass, digging holes and hopping over logs.Ten minutes in Ben realized that there was no fence here, and George’s property extended into the woods. Feebly, Ben tried to whistle in the same fashion George had to wrangle his dogs in. It worked, thankfully, and he was relieved that George wouldn't lose a tooth _and_ a dog that day. Yet something bothered him as he watched the dogs frolick in the early morning sun. _George_. George outside his room, sad and in pain. Something felt _off_ about that moment.

  
Captain bounded back to Ben, tiny little legs flying fast through the grass. “Hey buddy!” Ben said, his thoughts interrupted by the pup. He scooped the dog up, cradling him in his arms as a wet tongue darted against his cheek. “Is it breakfast time? I think it is. Come on, let's go inside.”

  
Ben spent the next few hours in solitude. He fed the dogs, read on the couch, and took inventory of the ingredients they'd be using that night. George remained quiet, most likely dozing off until around 10:30, where he roused from his room and shuffled into the kitchen. The ice pack was now warm, and he squeezed it between his fingers anxiously. “I've got to head out now.” He mumbled. Ben took notice of the swelling, and the way he winced as he spoke. Ben slipped off the couch and went to meet him in the kitchen.

  
“You don't look so good. Are you ok? I can drive you if you're not able to--”

  
“ _No._ ” George clipped. He paused, reassessing his tone. “No, just...stay here. I’ll be back in a few hours.” Ben withdrew, giving George some space as he collected his things and headed out the door.

  
“I’ll...be here.” Ben said, sending George off as the screen door slammed shut.

  
It shouldn't have bothered him. Really, it shouldn't have. But Ben wasn't the sort to blindly accept what was placed in front of him. Three weeks he had been here, living with a man he hardly knew. As kind and generous as he was, something about this morning just put a bad taste in Ben’s mouth.

  
_Worrisome...but kind._

  
That's what Sackett had said. What exactly George did to merit being _worrisome_ was starting to eat away at Ben. The homey details of his new shelter started to crumble into a pile of suspicion. Inheriting a house from a non-relative. A bookcase full of books that belong to multiple people. Ben peeked out the window, surveying the long gravel driveway that wound out of the property, realizing that he had been here almost a month and never ventured past the backyard. That he had never been offered to help George pick up the numerous supplies in town. That by some coincidence, Ben had never been _seen_ on George’s property, even by the morning delivery men who picked up his goods. That apart from Sackett (who George lauded as _discrete_ ) no one knew he was here.

  
Doubt began to creep into his mind, and the house he had regarded as his safe haven began to erode. George, kind as he was, was keeping him here. Ben wondered if he had turned down the offer to stay if there would even be any chance of him leaving. And his _room_.

  
That gave Ben an awful thought.

  
An awful, invasive thought that he had pushed from his mind since he picked up that law book. Ben crossed the room, heading down the hall towards George’s door. He needed to know. He needed to be _absolutely certain_. The horrible, gut wrenching fantasies returned to his mind as he placed a hand on the knob, heart racing. He turned it, gently creaking open the door.

  
A room. Just a room, with a made bed. The dresser was normal. The curtains the same as his. Ben stepped into the room cautiously, eyes searching for some nanny cam or other device that would alert George to his intrusion. On the bed was his laptop, still plugged in and dormant. No better clue as to who you're staying with than they're search history, right?

  
Ben settled down on the bed, the comforter crinkling quietly beneath him. He'd remake the bed after, making sure George was none the wiser. He placed the computer in his lap, flipping up the screen and jiggling a key to urge it awake. A normal, default background popped up. Good sign right? Then again, George didn't seem the type to fiddle around with customizations. If he did, he'd probably place a poorly sized photo of his dogs as his desktop. There was a window already minimized, and Ben clicked it back into view hastily.

  
“ _Oh God---”_

  
Ben’s heart leapt into his throat as he moan came through the speaker, instinctively slamming the laptop shut. His face flushed red, cheeks stinging. Porn. Just porn. As his heart rate returned to normal, it didn't seem so shocking. The poor guy’s tooth hurt, maybe sleep didn't come. He just needed to preoccupy himself. God knows Ben had nothing better to do in the woods. He thanked God he was alone, and that no one would hear the wanton moans as he opened the laptop again to resume his snooping. He was embarrassed, but not yet sated.

  
He muted the video, watching the two figures on screen. Two men, one whose face was buried in the pillows as his partner took him from behind. Ben gripped the laptop tightly, feeling some sense of discovery about George. He wondered how often George watched this. He was obviously alone enough to feel comfortable leaving it up. What did he think about? Just the actors? His previous lovers? Ben? What ran through his mind as he wrapped that broad hand around himself---

  
Ben pushed the thought from his mind, ignoring the uncomfortable hardness in his pants. He clicked through the other tabs, noting they weren't much to be looked at. Recipe sites. Amazon. A renewal for his newspaper. Standard adult websites and nothing more. There was nothing here. A temporary calm washed over him as he sat on the bed. It only eased part of his suffering. A clear search history didn't explain George’s aversion to letting him outside. It sure as hell didn't justify anything. It seemed the simplest solution would be to test George’s limits. Ask to go into town. Insist on being in town. And if all else failed...make sure he had to go into town.

  
Ben rolled off the bed clumsily, his hip knocking into the night stand. It knocked a few items loose, which went scattering across the floor. “Shit.” He swore, rushing to pick up the mess. An alarm clock dangled from the stand, which he righted quickly. A bottle of antacid rolled beneath the bed, which he fished out. And there, laying face down, was an open book. George’s journal.

  
Ben paused, picking it up for closer examination. His handwriting was neat, wonderfully smooth cursive. Pages and pages. The book was thick. Glancing around Ben spied a small shelf. More identical books. _Oh_. It never occurred to Ben that George was _alone_ -alone. He had his dogs, his routine, but no one home. He felt a little sick holding the journal, knowing full well that _this_ might be the only thing George expressed himself to. He shouldn't read it. He couldn't read it. It's wasn't his to read. Ben reached to place it back on the night stand when something fell out. A small, yellowed piece of paper. A news clipping.

  
It was old, and worn, creased to the point of no return. The text was faded, and splotchy, but Ben could still make it out. There in the corner, a grainy black and white photo of a teenager, looking into the camera; a graduation photo. The headline:

  
“Bring Alex Home: Search for Missing Teen Continues”

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little warning for some homophobic terms, as used in horrible trolling facebook comments.

The sight of it made Ben’s blood run cold.

“Bring Alex Home: Search for Missing Teen Continues” 

The little graduation photo of Alex next to the text stared back at him hauntingly. He was slight, with keen eyes, with a mess of curls. His graduation suit was pressed neat, the tie dimpled just so that even in the grainy black and white print it looked pristine. A kid. Just a  _ kid.  _ Younger than he was now. He glanced at the date, noting that the article was printed six years ago. There was no doubt by its worn appearance that George looked it over frequently, passing it from journal to journal over the years. Ben imagined George’s thick fingers brushing over the paper, smoothing it out gently. He sat back down on the bed, using the light from the window to better read the faded text.

_ Police still have no leads to the whereabouts of  Alexander Hamilton,18. The honors student was last seen after a graduation party, heading back from Main Street. His foster parents claim that Alex has not spent more than a day per week Home in the last year. His newfound guardian, George Washington, was taken in for questioning, but promptly released. He has declined all interviews. _

_ Community efforts to locate the teen have begun to dwindle down. Scouting teams along the Appalachian Trail have found no evidence of Alex or of foul play. However, Alex’s foster family holds suspicion about his disappearance due to the circumstances of his vanishing.  _

_ If you see Alexander Hamilton, contact the police or this number below.  _

Seeing George’s name as  _ guardian _ didn't bring him much comfort. The fact that he was brought in at all was unnerving. It brought up too many questions. Did Alex stay here? Were those his law books on the shelf? Was George this reclusive when the disappearance happened? Ben thought of the backyard, and the woods stretching beyond it. It wasn't impossible to think that there were miles and miles of nothing out there. Too vast and treacherous for a team of dogs and volunteers to risk. But one man...who wasn't afraid to be deep in the woods after dark...on a wide open property all to himself… it sent shivers down his spine.

His body acted without permission, flipping the laptop open once more and pulling up the web browser. Ben opened a private window, realizing for the first time he wasn't exactly sure  _ where _ he was. He vaguely remembered seeing signs on the road relating to Virginia. That must be where he is, right? The article didn't name a city. It was just a small local paper, snipped neatly from its source. Ben typed in all he knew.

_ Alexander Hamilton Disappearance. _

The articles scrolled up immediately. The first few were from the same pape, a small publication special to their town. Ben clicked the first link, finding the very first article of the boy’s disappearance. 

_ Local Honors Student Goes Missing  _

_ Honors student Alexander Hamilton,18, has gone missing following a graduation party for Ridge High School seniors. He was last seen by classmates leaving the party and heading up Main Street. Alex’s foster parents reported him missing when he neglected to come home the following evening to do laundry.  _

_ Alex was a bright student, winning scholarships to several ivy league colleges. He had not made any decisions for the fall semester, and was being courted by these fine institutions. Home life, however, was terse. Sources say Alex’s relationship with his foster family was strained. He spent most of his week in the care of George Washington, 34, owner of Vernon Catering. Alex’s teachers have reported constant fighting over Alex’s decision to stay with a guardian the state has not approved. Police were called on several occasions to remove Alex from Washington’s care and return him to his foster home. _

_ Washington denies seeing Alex on the night of his disappearance, though the family insists a more in depth investigation be opened. _

Ben clicked back to the search page, flitting through the next few news articles on the disappearance. The timeline was brief; Alex disappeared, a search party combed the woods surrounding the town for two weeks, George was taken in for further questioning, the leads fizzle out. The yellowed clipping in George’s journal was the last printed publication of the incident. Having felt like he only scratched the surface, Ben scrolled down the page, whizzing past similar articles from neighboring towns urging folks to keep looking for Alexander. He eventually landed on a facebook group made by members of the community. It wasn’t much different than before; it linked all the articles about Alex, posted pictures of him and his friends, videos to gain sympathy. What drew his eye was a large amount of comments under one of the articles--the last article. 

_ [C.R: That poor boy! So bright too. I’ll keep him and his foster family in my prayers] _

Ben scrolled through the well wishes, the sympathies, the compassionate stories of their own loved ones who had been taken from them. He was almost convinced that this was the end of the trail when a particularly glaring comment rolled up.

_ [A.B: Let’s hope nobody ate the mince meat pie at Washington’s next affair.] _

Ben recoiled, though he quickly remembered that only a few short weeks ago he too was praying that the slab of meat on the cutting board wasn’t human. Still, it jarred him, and he continued down to the response on the thread. 

_ [M.C: Wow, asshole. It’s not like a kid went missing or anything, right? Don’t you have better things to do than to troll a missing person’s page?] _

_ [A.B: I’m not trolling. I just think it’s stupid that the cops let that pedo go. Wtf does a grown ass man want with a high school kid anyway. They should have locked his ass up.] _

_ [M.C: George is part of a high school outreach program, moron. That’s how they met. Can you blame a kid for wanting to stay with an adult who isn’t using them for the government paycheck?] _

_ [A.B: The government put his foster parents in charge for a reason. They’re qualified parents, not some faggy baker who lives on the outskirts of town.] _

_ [R.T: And there you have it, folks. Who the fuck cares if he’s gay? Besides, his foster family was _ _ awful. I’m certain Alex ran off to escape them.] _

_ [A.B: Why run? He was 18. With scholarships. He had shit lined up, and his foster parents wouldn’t have a say in that. Nah. You want to know where Alex is? Ask George where he dumped him after he fucked him.]  _

A string of angry responses followed, but Ben couldn’t bring himself to read them. He felt nauseous, the room spinning. With shaky hands he closed his tabs, leaving George’s pages up before putting the laptop on sleep mode. The next few minutes were a numb silence, where Ben slowly made the bed back to the neat state George left it in. He tucked the article back into it’s place, folded as it was, and placed the journal onto the nightstand. 

The rest of the day was spent in his room, staring up at the ceiling from his bed. George would be home soon. He’d be in pain. There was baking that needed to be done. Ben felt as if a hole had been punched through his chest. It ached and throbbed at the thought that George, his George, was someone else entirely. That his whole purpose of being here was some nefarious scheme to live out a fantasy from six years ago. But it felt real. It felt like George cared. And why couldn’t Ben believe that? How hard would it be to push these rumors aside and greet George with a smile as he walked through the door. How wrong would it be to yearn for this morning, where the only thing Ben wanted was to ease the pain from George, and return the kindness he has been given.

Whether he intended it to be or not, this was a new home for Ben. A safe haven from the shitstorm of a summer he had endured. And, until now, Ben had thought he was sharing it with a literal angel. A person so downright giving that it would shame the devout Christians who bragged about their charitable deeds back in Setauket. Tears stung Ben’s eyes as he stared up at the stucco ceiling, making shapes in his mind. This could have been home.  _ George _ could have been home.

The notion wracked Ben with sobs, short and croaking as he turned over to cry into his pillow.  _ George _ . What cruel trick of fate would land him here. Place Ben, small and fragile, into the hands of a man who could shatter him in his fist-- and have Ben  _ want him.  _ Want to be held and reassured. Long to be laid down gently in his bed and allowed to cry. Want to enter the bubble of his space and lay his hands on him. And in the end, feel safe. He wanted to feel safe in George’s arms. 

But now?

He felt like sand, slipping from the safety of George’s palms and into the wind. It was time to leave. 

He couldn’t believe it was time to leave.

* * *

 

George arrived home late in the afternoon, bloody cotton stuffed between his cheek and jaw. He rubbed his cheek, pain crossing his face as he walked up the driveway. Ben opened the door, ushering him in. 

“Sorry I’m late. It was worse than we thought. He had to clean out the whole area.” George mumbled, his speech slurred from the novacane. Ben nodded, having already started on the baking. They worked in near silence; George unable to speak due to his tooth, Ben...unwilling. He couldn’t find any words. He couldn’t look at George without seeing the face of that poor boy. The comments about what he had done. The possibility of it happening again. 

Dinner was much of the same. They ordered pizza, and with no surprise, Ben was asked in some roundabout way to step away from the windows as George retrieved the food. He stood in the hall just out of sight, watching as George paid for the pie, and felt his heart wrench. He wanted to scream. To just make himself known and blow whatever cover George was trying here. He wanted to kick and cry and curse George for making him believe in him. For making this place feel like his home. He wanted to ask if that’s how Alex felt. At home, safe, and then...nothing. 

Back at the kitchen table Ben ate his slice quietly, tears pricking at his eyes as he looked over the meal. It was so normal. Why couldn’t this be normal. It was only when his vision blurred beyond repair that George took notice.

“Ben, what’s wrong?” he asked. His gaze was soft and concerned, and Ben hated how much he wanted it. He dismissed the tears. Just tired. Long day. Something or the other came out of his mouth. George eyed him warily, but said nothing. The silence remained until clean up, and Ben excused himself to his room. Before undressing for bed, he pulled out his pack, and stuffed a few items in. His old clothing, as well as the fresh socks and underwear. He left the shirts and pants George bought him, but kept the hoodie. He set his watch alarm to 2 a.m., though he hardly expected to sleep that long. He would be out and gone before George even woke up, and hopefully far enough down a main road to hitch hike to a bus station. He had a small wad of cash from his bakery work, and planned to blow it all on a ticket to Georgia. He’d figure out the rest when he got there. He’d have to. 

Ben took his time brushing his teeth, afterward lingering into the living room to say his goodbyes to the dogs. Captain stretched in his bed, small paws wiggling as Ben ran a hand down his back. “You’re a good boy” he whispered, feeling himself choke up. He’d miss the dogs. He’d miss a lot of things. Captain crawled in his lap, sleepily licking at his hands. Ben felt tears start to roll down his face. “I wish I could take you too.” he confessed. “I don’t want to be alone again.” Captain rolled onto his back, angling more for belly rubs than confessions. Ben obliged, enjoying the little pup one last time before slipping off to bed, trying his best to ignore the disappointed whimpers that followed. 

* * *

“Missed you at school.” A voice said. Ben peeked his eye open warily, a figure sitting just at the edge of the bed. The shape was familiar, with the soft minty smell of aftershave Ben had looked forward to smelling this fall. 

“Nate?” He croaked. Kissed in silvery moonlight, Nate played with the lace at the edge of a decorative pillow. He was there, and at the same time he wasn't. He was  _ here _ in Virginia, yet...something about the way he looked felt like he was in New Haven.

“Peters almost called on you in class, kind of the downside of me writing in your name on the attendance sheet.” Nate said, eyes sparkling. Ben felt his heart sink. Professor Peters was their Econ professor last term. He had had this dream before. 

“I’ll come to the next class” he moaned into the pillow, knowing exactly what Nate would say next.

“You better. I think he's catching on to our little scheme.” And then there was the pause, the one Ben would think about over and over in his mind for weeks. Nate’s eyes lowered, hands pulling at the pillow nervously. “Hey, I think it's best that we don't talk this summer.”

Ben didn't respond. He had played out every conversation, all one sided. This part wouldn’t change. “Just to be safe. You know?” Ben knew. “I'm sure it’ll bumpy. But I'd rather it just be me when I tell them.”  _ Don’t tell them.  _ “But your number is listed as the Grindhouse Cafe, the one here in New Haven. Just in case.” 

Ben squeezed his eyes shut, hoping the dream would just end. That he would wake and be back in his room alone. A minute passed, and Nate fell silent. The room smelled less like peppermint. The sickly sweet smell of it gave way to something more putrid. Something wet or rotten.

A new weight settled on the bed, cold and clammy. Ben resisted the urge to gag, cracking open an eye to see what new phantom haunts his dreams. 

Alex.

Wet and cold, skin no longer flush with life. He was gray and slimy, with hands pruned as if he’d spent a day in the river. Ben could feel the bed grow wet as Alex moved closer, putrid water dribbling out of holes in his ribs. Ben clutched his pillow, holding it as a barrier between him and the corpse of this boy, trying desperately to put some space between them. Alex clawed closer, leaning in so that the loose gray skin of his forehead pressed against Ben’s. His breathing sounded ragged and waterlogged.

“ _ What are you doing in my room?”  _

Ben gasped, startled awake. His heart pounded in his chest, ears ringing against the silence. A quick look around the room did the trick. No Alex. No Nate. He was alone. 

Ben felt tears welling in his eyes, the warm puddle beneath him growing colder by the second. “Shit.  _ Shit.” _ He said, climbing up out of the soiled bed. It was pretty bad, soaking his sweatpants through, and bed down to the mattress cover. Ben spared a glance at his watch: 1:47 a.m. He could still do it. Flee and be rid of this place. But the thick smell of fresh urine greeted him, and Ben couldn't not imagine leaving George alone with nothing but some piss stained bed sheets.

He quickly stripped the sheets off the bed, stripping off his ruined clothes as well. He tossed them in a pile, taking fresh ones to the bathroom so he could clean up. He avoided looking in the mirror as he swabbed off, unable to face the inevitable puffy eyed, snot nosed state he was in as his thoughts caught up to him. 

He’d have to wash the sheets. Maybe just throw them into the washer. They'd be wet by the time George woke up, but at least clean. Should he leave a note? What would he even say? “Thanks for saving my life, but I snooped in your room and I think you murdered someone”. And if that wasn't it, then what? Maybe just leave. Walk out the door and down the road into oblivion. 

Ben gathered the sheets, walking to the alcove where George kept his washer. He stuffed the soiled things in, hands shaking as he poured in the detergent. With a click, the steady hum of the machine filling the room. Ben sat down on a chair, watching as the little window filled with water, sloshing and churning rhythmically. He should go. It was already 2:30. This accident pushed him back, but there was still plenty of time before George roused. If he walked quickly, he might even be able to get far enough to make up for his lost time. If he caught a ride within the first 20 minutes or so--

“Benjamin?” 

Ben froze. George stood in the doorway of the alcove, eyes bleary from sleep. He rubbed his arms as if to dispel the chill as he adjusted to the light of the room. “What’s wrong?” 

Ben felt his face flush red, pressing his knees together embarrassingly. George pulled a chair up, taking a look at the washer, and the sheets churning in the port hole window. “Oh. I see.” He said, voice soft and sympathetic. “Oh, Benjamin. Are you alright?” 

Tears pricked at Ben’s eyes. He didn't want to do this now. Face George and tell him he was leaving. In fact, the longer he spoke the more he  _ wanted _ to stay. He just...didn't know what to do. And maybe that's why it all fell apart. The tears, the sobbing, his arms shooting around George’s neck to pull him into an embrace so that he could grieve. 

“I don’t...I don’t wanna...”  _ To leave. To know if it's true. To say goodbye.  _ It all came out in great heaving sobs, buried deep into the crook of George’s neck. Ben felt hot tears soaking the soft fabric of George’s t-shirt, his stubble scratching him with each breathless hiccup. George lay a palm flat on his back, rubbing soothing circles. “I can’t…” Ben blubbered, ashamed at the snot and spit that was  seeping deeper into George’s shirt. 

“It’s ok..it’s ok. Let’s just get you back to bed.” George whispered, hands sliding down to Ben’s waist, giving him a firm tug up out of his chair. Ben obliged, numbly, shoulders still shaking. God, he’s ruined  _ everything.  _ He couldn’t run away properly…. _ twice,  _ couldn’t be self reliant, couldn’t mind his own damn business, and now he was taking time out of George’s short sleep cycle to have a full blown meltdown. He could only sniffle and sob as George gently guided him out into the hall.

“Let’s get you to your room--” 

Ben gripped George’s shirt tightly, cementing his feet. He couldn’t go back in there. Not now. Not with the mattress bare and the image of Nate sitting at the edge of his bed. Not with a cold corpse and a pack ready to go. George stopped, studying Ben’s face. “No? If it’s...bad...we can just clean it tomorrow. The couch, then.” He said. Ben nodded, shuffling his feet as he was turned back towards the living room. The dogs groaned, snuffling awake as George laid a blanket out on the couch. Ben stood off to the side, unsure of when George pressed a tissue into his hand, but dabbed pitifully at his nose. 

The couch was soft, the cushions threatening to swallow Ben up as he sank into them. George laid a blanket over him, tenderly tucking him in. Ben freed a hand from under the covers, locking it around George’s wrist. “Ben?” Ben tightened his grip, his vision blurring with tears. George’s expression softened, and he sat on the couch alongside Ben. His weight dipped the cushions, allowing Ben to roll closer to him. He was warm, the soft scent of vanilla from baking still lingering in his hair, peppermint from his toothpaste accidentally smeared on his shirt. Ben groaned softly, letting his head loll onto George’s shoulder. This could be the worst mistake ever. Staying here.  _ Wanting _ a life here. He should leave. Right? But George is warm, and his breathing is even and steady. Ben’s eyes feel heavy, his body limp and slumped against George, strained and exhausted. This could be the worst thing ever. 

“Stay...please.”

George doesn’t skip a beat, his arm moving to cradle Ben underneath it.   
“Of course.”


	8. Chapter 8

Ben only faintly recalls feeling George rise from the couch to perform his morning duties. From his spot between the cushions, he hears the crinkling of tin foil, and the steady shuffle of George’s slippers on the kitchen tile. Through his exhaustion he still feels the tell tale knot of guilt twisting in his stomach. _‘I kept him up all night’._ There was no phone alarm. So either George had an impeccable natural clock, or he stayed awake while Ben sobbed himself to sleep on his shoulder. To be honest...either one made Ben sick to his stomach.

It felt surreal. Laying on the couch, heavy with sleep while George quietly tiptoed around in the early morning air. It reminded him of home. Of those few happy times in childhood where his cousins would stay the night before a big vacation. Where Ben would sleep on the couch, and wake to the gentle tinkling of coffee cups, and hushed murmuring of the adults trying to get their heads on straight before the kids woke up.

In fact, Ben had blinked his eyes several times, wondering if he will open them to find his father handing off a cup of coffee to his aunt. But it never happened. It was just George, and the dogs, and this house.

Sleep overtook him again, and Ben rose much later to the smell of breakfast on the stove. He stretched, noting that during his slumber two very fat little pups had climbed atop him. Captain and Cloe, nuzzling his blankets as he rearranged himself in the cool morning air.

George was at the stove, finishing up some bacon. It popped nosily in the pan, causing him to flinch back and rub at his arm. “ _Shit_ …” he whispered.

“Bacon got you?”

George seemed startled, whipping around to find Ben awake on the couch. “Just a bit. I was hoping you'd sleep until the whole thing was done.” He said, scooping some strips off the pan and onto a plate. Ben watched hungrily as he blotted it, and placed it on the kitchen table.

“I'm sorry about the dogs. After I got up they just piled on. I think they knew you had a rough night.”

Ben scratched at Captain’s ear, the small pup nuzzling up to his chest for optimal scratches. “Oh that's ok. I'm sorry I didn't help you, though...you know...with the deliveries this morning.” He mumbled, too afraid to look up at George as he did so. From the kitchen came the sound of plates being set down on the table, and a small sigh.

“Benjamin, you don't need to apologize. You had a rough night.” He said. The sound of footsteps approached, and George nudged Ben’s legs aside on the couch to perch on one of the cushions. “Is there anything I should know about?” He asked.

Ben’s gut twisted, dread returning. Yeah, actually, loads of things. The fact that he was snooping and found some old article that implicated George in a murder. A whole Facebook page of people slandering him. The decision to run away and the horrible nightmare that made him piss himself with terror. All of these things. He wanted George to coo and shush his fears away, tell him it's not true. He wanted him to mean it. But all Ben could do was cough.

“I, uh, had a nightmare.” He stammered. George raised an eyebrow.

“Anything you'd want to talk about?” He asked. Ben fiddled with the edge of his blanket, cheeks heating up.

“Nightmares. Just...stuff. It's normal I guess. Just something that happened when I lost my home.” He said. George remained silent, urging him to fill it with more. “Stress mostly. It's not you, George...you've been...God, you've been good to me. I'm just on edge. I feel like I can't get too...comfortable.”

George nodded, mulling over Ben’s words. “Are you afraid I’ll kick you out? After this winter?” He implored. Ben felt a hand come down on his knee, stroking it softly through the blanket. It was strong and soothing, igniting a deep rooted hunger for some tender affection he had missed all these months. The same tenderness he got when he wrapped his arms around George last night, sobbing like a child.

“I'm just not sure I'm wanted. And I don't want to overstay...and be a bother...or anything.” Ben said. George’s hand slid up his leg, finding Ben’s hand and clasping it tightly.

“Your company has been the brightest few weeks in an abysmal few years.” He said. Ben felt a spark of something in his chest, and the selfish feeling of being special. His meager company. So George really was alone up here all these years. Though he didn't want to press George into telling him _what_ made it so abysmal, Ben smiled softly.

“Really?”

George smiled back, his thumb stroking Ben’s hand. “Oh yes. And your help is a godsend.” He said. Ben felt his face flush, heart racing. Oh... _oh..._ this was bad. Ben had dreaded this since that first night over dinner, his fork almost dropped over that charmingly crooked smile. From the time he saw those strong hands delicately fold the pastries, kneading with absolute care. On walks with the dogs and the invitation to stay the winter. How his heart raced at the thought of waking up to George in his pjs, pensively drinking his cup of coffee. The way he looked at him, so hopeful and kind.

Ben _wanted_ him. Truly _wanted_ him.

He wanted to be held by George and told it was ok. He wanted George to look down at him with that crooked smile as he ran his hands over him. He wanted...he wanted---

A little yip from Captain startled Ben from his revelation. George snapped up as well, eyes turning to the dogs nipping excitedly at his heels.

“So it's breakfast for you four as well?” He said, walking to their dishes. As they skittered off, Ben sat dumbfounded on the couch, his heart thudding in his ears. Despite all he knew...all he _thought_ he knew...it was clear now. He liked George.

* * *

 

George was called in to discuss a new pastry assortment for a coffee shop on Pine st, leaving Ben alone in the house once more. After his little realization that morning, Ben was eager to right himself, and that meant dealing with the troubling news he stumbled across the day before.

Ben walked back into George’s room, this time making a beeline for the bookshelf lined with identical journals. If there was any indication of George’s turmoil, _this_ would be it.  No bias hometown paper, no internet trolls. Just George, and the firsthand account of Alex’s disappearance.

It took a few minutes to squash the feeling of invasion, though it was rightfully deserved. He was doing something horrible. This was an awful step past George’s boundaries, violating his personal space. But something gnawed at him. The George he knew, he _couldn't_ have done this. And he aimed to find some reassurance from George himself.

Finding the journal took time, trekking through almost 10 years worth of journals to find the incident 6 years ago. About half an hour into his search he struck gold, stumbling across a journal that was tucked behind another; hidden from view. The first few pages proved to be from the correct time, mentioning Alex.

_Sept. 5th,_

_I'm only three days into my new high school outreach program and I can already see how vital it is to provide support to these teens. One child in particular is in desperate need of guidance. Alex. Incredibly smart, but unruly. His teachers tell me his parents passed away when he was young. The system doesn't work well for kids like that._

Ben thumbs through the entries, familiarizing himself with Alex through George’s eyes. He watched as Alex sailed to the top of his class, able to bake with ease, whilst the rest of his class struggled to frost a cupcake. He read through as George began to mentor Alex outside of school, asking him to help with orders for his business.

_Dec.11th,_

_Alex has stayed the week in preparation for my wave of Christmas orders. I asked if he would be better off at home, where I could pick him up at the beginning of each day, but he merely shrugged. He doesn't like to talk about home. He doesn't have any visible bruises, but I fear his foster parents treat him cruelly._

_More troubling is the fact that their son has been living with me a week and I have received no phone call. No text or email asking when he would return home, or if he was even ok. I have messaged them first, informing them that Alex is well and that he's studying. I have received no response._

Ben made note of this, connecting it to the law book on George’s shelf.

_Jan. 11th,_

_Alex turned 18! I somehow managed to finish the cake without him knowing (though he probably knew I was up to something). Funds are tight right now, what with one of the cafe contracts falling through, so I could only offer Alex one meager thing: his own bedroom. Now that he's 18, I can offer him an alternative to his foster home. Alex is a strong young man, but he broke down into tears at the offer. And I, being too soft at heart, did the same. The house feels alive, something it's been missing since Martha lived here. He can have a home here if he chooses. And I think he has._

Their fondness only grew as spring came. Alex went to school, he applied to college, and the results have back _good._ Ivy League colleges bowled over by his admissions essay, all offering full or partial scholarships.

_April 29th,_

_Alex has received the last of his acceptance letters. The last few days he's been mulling over his choices, picking though their programs and benefits. But here comes the troublesome part...the money. All of these require him to board. His foster parents have made it clear Alex has no money, though I disagree with the bitter way they put him down. His talents are something to be celebrated, not squashed in this small pit of a town. Had I had half the opportunities he has, I'd have done anything to go to college. And one would expect his caretakers would feel the same._

_Though Alex refuses to show it, he's excited for college. I suppose once he makes his choice we can talk more about the funds. It wouldn't be too hard to take out a new mortgage on the house, and give him something to settle on while he studies._

Ben felt his gut twist. Maybe it was because he knew Alex would disappear in two months. Or maybe it was the fact that George’s generosity ran dangerously deep. The kindness he had shown Ben was nothing compared to Alex. He loved Alex, truly. And it showed as they prepared to tour colleges that summer before making a last minute rush decision. Ben held his breath as he reached the dreaded date: Alex’s disappearance.

_June 17th,_

_Alex didn't return home last night. I stayed up past 3 before passing out. He was supposed to go to a graduation party, which ended around 10-11. I gave him money for a cab in case he and his friends got drunk. I figured maybe his friends drove him home, back to his foster place, because it was closer. But this morning I received no call from Alex. No “I had fun.” No “something happened.”_

_It's now 7pm, and his foster parents have called me and told me he's missing. Missing. The mother had some choice words, demanding to know where he was. Like I knew. I'm just as in the dark as anyone. Hopefully he turns up before the police are needed._

The next day wasn't much better

_June 18th,_

_I was called into the police station today. Called is too gentle a word though...dragged was more like it. Two cops came to my doorstep asking me to come to the station for questioning. Said they got a tip on Alex’s stay with me they needed to clarify. I told them it could be clarified right here and they took that as a sign that I needed to be questioned a little more intensely. They cuffed me unlawfully and brought me to the station. That's when I saw the cameras._

_It seems Alex’s parents formed a pretty nice idea about what happened to Alex in the time between our call and this arrest. The newsmen outside the station tried to ask me where I dumped him. “Dumped him”. Those are the words they used. I had no idea what that even meant until I was in the interrogation room._

_The cops laid out a statement from Alex’s foster mother saying that I was to blame. She said that she suspected me of having sex with Alex when he was under aged, that she remembers cleaning his pants and finding notes from me proclaiming some sick obsession. I denied the whole thing, tried to tell the cops that his parents were grossly neglectful. But without any reports to CPS, my case wasn't good enough. So they asked me more questions._

_My sexuality. Did I find Alex attractive. Was the sex payment for his staying at my house. Did Alex want to stop, and did I kill him. They wanted to know if I killed him. “If you show is where you buried him, we can work on reducing your sentence.” One said. They didn't even want to hear my side. They wanted this case to be over._

_Thank god for Martha. My Martha. She heard immediately and came back into town to represent me. Meanwhile, I hear they've started a search for his body. I haven't stopped shaking since Martha brought me home._

Ben felt sick, turning the page only to find the next few pages ripped out of the journal. June 19th-22nd was gone. It settled heavily on Ben’s shoulders. Why rip them out? Was George afraid of writing? Did he do it so he wouldn't remember the pain he felt? By the 23rd, the entries focused on his humiliation, on how he was mortified by how many people believed he could do such a thing.

Ben tucked the journal back into its place, curiosity piqued. He searched the shelf for the missing pages, hoping they were just shoved someplace private. He even glanced under the bed, opening a few shoe boxes, only finding some old running shoes.

George was innocent, he had that much. And other people who were close to George knew he was too. People like Martha, and Sackett. _Sackett._ The man’s name rattled in his head. They've been friends for years, _surely_ he would know something.

Ben had pressed his number on speed dial, hearing it ring twice before realizing his grievous error. _Ben, you jackass._ Why on earth would he think this is a good idea. He violated George’s privacy twice, and now he was so bold as to call up one of his oldest friends to extract some horrible heart wrenching story from him. He felt his stomach churn with guilt as he slammed the phone down.  This ends here. The snooping. The questioning. He knew George was innocent, that's all he needed.

And then the phone rang.

Ben froze, reading the name on the caller ID. Sackett. It rang four times before the machine picked up. Sackett didn't leave a message. Ben deleted the missed call, and sat nervously in front of the phone. Maybe Sackett would think it was a wrong number. Go on with his day.

And then it rang again. Ben waited it out, only to hear Sackett’s voice come onto the answering machine.

“George? It's Nathaniel. You called me. Is everything alright? Is the boy ok? I’ll keep calling, you know.”

Ben swore to himself, resigning to pick up the phone. “Hello…” he mumbled, cheeks hot with embarrassment.

“George? No...Ben? Is that you, son?” Sackett asked. Ben cleared his throat.

“Yes, sir. I...I called by accident.” He lied. Sackett hummed with disbelief.

“Somehow I don't believe that. Are you ill again? Is George home?” Ben felt trapped, caught in his lie.

“I...I'm fine. He's out. I just misdialed the phone and I got you by accident.” Ben babbled. Sackett only sighed.

“What's this really about, son?”

Ben faltered. “Nothing! My finger just hit the thing---”

“Don't lie to me. I'm a doctor. I've seen enough people bumble through an appointment to know when they're lying. Is it George? Does he treat you unkindly? Make you uneasy?” He asked, his questions probing.

Ben felt a fire stoke in his chest, an angry flash at the insinuation that George treated him badly. “Never! I mean. We're fine. I'm happy…”

“But?”

What was the point of fighting it? Sackett was clearly onto him. “I know about Alex.” He confessed. There was a moment of silence, a pause in which Sackett took a deep breath and exhaled shakily.

“He told you.”

Ben felt his face flush. “No. I...found out _elsewhere_.” He felt dirty admitting it, expecting Sackett to yell or scold him for being so horribly rude. Instead, Sackett sighed and grumbled something he couldn't quite hear before speaking up into the phone.

“Listen. He couldn't help what happened. That whole fiasco got out of hand, but he did not kill Alexander.” Sackett said.

Ben shivered. “I know, I know but...oh god...this sounds bad. I got carried away, and I was scared and I went through some things and his journals and--”

“You're curious about the missing entries.” Sackett said plainly. Ben was startled, but found his voice again.

“Yes.”

“I'll tell you, but you need to promise to stop this. George has been protective of himself ever since that horrible incident.

Soon after Alex disappeared, George was brought to the station. Martha came home to represent him, and that night the three of us stayed together. He was unwilling to talk about things. It was understandable.

A few days passed, and the searches were coming up empty. Then, one day George broke down. The police wanted to speak with him again, cross examine his story for weak points, more nonsense.

Martha knew something wasn't right with him, it didn't take much coaxing to figure out what had happened. Apparently before his disappearance, Alex had gotten a little drunk, as did George. He confessed that Alex had kissed him, and that's all I heard before Martha stepped in. She insisted they keep this between them, and to destroy any mention of this. People were on a witch hunt for George, and breathing this would doom him. We destroyed the entries that night.”

Ben sat in numb silence.

“But did he...George and Alex, I mean. Did they…”

“Were they sexually involved? To this day I'm not sure. George has never spoken of it since. But I do know he loved that boy deeply. Now, has any of this helped that nosy curiosity of yours?”

Ben nodded before realizing Sackett couldn't see that. “Yes sir. I promise I won't bother either of you again. I won't ever mention it.”

“Good boy. George has had a lot of heartbreak these past six years. I had hoped your company would help him trust again. Then again, I may have spoken too soon.”

The phone clicked, the dial tone returning. _I may have spoken too soon_. What a deserving end to his curiosity. Ben felt tears well in his eyes as he glanced at the clock. George would be home soon. It's the second day in a row that he dreaded seeing George walk through the door, knowing he had violated some pure trust.

George was innocent. That much was clear. But the sting of his discovery still lingered, the thought of George and Alex together plaguing his thoughts. It was clear he loved Alex. Loved him enough to sell the roof above his head to give him a better life.

Ben felt hopeless in comparison. A college dropout. A runaway. No longer top of his class or even all that bright. And here he was lusting after someone who was nursing an old wound. He felt predatory, leeching off of George’s kindness and sucking him dry. God he was awful. So very awful.

But not awful enough to let George suffer for his wrong doing. Upon hearing the sound of tires on the gravel, Ben practiced his smile in the mirror. He watched it split his worrisome expression, hopelessly out of place. The door opened, George holding a bag with a few bottles of wine.

“I'm home, Benjamin.” He called out.

Ben turned, taking in George’s wind ruffled hair and red tinged cheeks as he stomped his boots on the door mat, causing that familiar heat to pool in Ben’s gut.

And the smile came naturally.


	9. Chapter 9

The next four weeks were almost blissful. With some newfound ease that George had not murdered Alex, Ben could shrug off the occasional shred of doubt and get on with his life. Though the thought did linger in his mind, it was quickly replaced with some splendid task. Baking pies, icing cakes, walking the dogs, even a pleasant hike through the trails that lay just beyond George’s property. The frantic worrying seemed to dissolve into the hum of everyday life, until it stood out no more than the crunch of leaves beneath his boots.

“They're saying snow this week.” George remarked, keeping stride with Cloe and Tipsy on their leads. “Will you be ok with just those boots?” 

Ben smiled, a little embarrassed. “George, I’m  _ fine. Honestly.  _ You've bought me enough. I’ll be warm, I promise.” He said, pausing as Captain and Mopsey examined a tree stump. “I wish you’d let me pay you back.” Following his initial gift of sweatpants and tees, George had waited patiently for Ben’s figure to fill out again. As their walks outside became more frequent, Ben found George coming home with bags of new clothes. Sturdy jeans, boots, sweaters and flannels. Things to keep him warm when the weather inevitably turned bitter. Ben had accepted them graciously, though he felt awful as George refused the cash he would try to press into his palm. 

“Nonsense, Benjamin. You needed it. And I can't take these dog hikes without you in good shoes.” He chuckled. “Captain loves you more than me, you know.” 

“He does not!” Ben said, bending to scratch the pup behind the ear. “He loves you the most. You feed him.” 

“You let him sleep in your bed. You've spoiled him.” George said, nudging Tipsy along with his foot as the dog tried to eat a leaf. “My dogs were content with sleeping in their beds until you came along. Now they all want to sleep in the big bed with Ben.” 

Ben shoved George playfully, “Am I supposed to believe you've  _ never  _ let the dogs sleep in your bed, Mr. Dog Parent?” 

George bent down, now trying to pry a mouthful of leaves from Tipsy’s jaws. “Nobody sleeps in the Daddy bed but Daddy.” He paused, cheeks pink. “Oh God, that's really sad isn't it?”

“I won't tell anyone.” Ben said, his own cheeks stinging. 

Ben had to admit, this was nice. Him and George, the dogs, the fresh air. He hardly missed the world beyond their little bubble. Though he wasn't completely oblivious; there were nights spent with the evening news on, newspapers and radio programs. But it felt  _ distant _ . Like it couldn't touch him here. For the first time in a long time he felt  _ safe. _

More than safe. At home.

And George was... _ George. _ Kind and sweet. Patient. More than what Ben deserved, really. He felt a little ashamed at his burgeoning feelings for George, having taken so much from him already, but he’d fallen hard. And here he was holed up all alone in that empty house with him...with his big warm bed...and his strong broad hands…

Ben stumbled clumsily over his own feet, swerving to avoid taking Captain out on his way down. He was met with a broad hand on his chest, catching him as he lurched towards the ground. “Careful.” George said, pushing back just enough to tip Ben back onto his own two feet, seemingly effortless. “Maybe your boots are too big in the toe.” He pondered. Ben flushed, wringing the leash in his hands meekly.

“I'm just clumsy is all. You can see why I wasn't doing so well out here on my own.” He said sheepishly. George looked away, though Ben caught the soft, bittersweet expression on his face as he took up his stride again.

“Actually, you did remarkably.” He said. “I keep playing it over in my head. The supplies you had, how long you were there. For someone who was winging it on very basic knowledge of the outdoors, you made it. I've known experienced hikers to make pitfalls and die out there.” 

Somehow that didn't comfort Ben. He'd rather not think of his stint in the woods as some monument to how hardy he was. It made him feel like a weed, rough and unwanted, meant to be pulled from the ground and tossed in the trash. That's what his parents thought of him. “Then again, you didn't have much of an option. Living out there alone.” George finished, leaving that sentence to hang in the air. Ben nodded, squashing down that nagging feeling of regret. He’d fudged the truth this long, taking advantage of George’s generosity, that the occasional guilt trip felt  _ deserved. _ He'd commit to this act; the life a hard up homeless young man. Not a runaway with a room, probably perfectly preserved, hundreds of miles away. 

“Let’s loop back. We have to decorate.” 

* * *

“How are those pumpkins coming, Ben?” 

Ben looked at the little piece of parchment paper he had cut, a bulbous blob of orange frosting sitting on it sadly, looking more lopsided by the second. “Uh...yeah.” Another disappointing squirt of orange escaped his piping bag. “I think it's a pumpkin.” George looked up from his work, a large cake, frosted green with a crooked creepy fence around the rim. 

“Let me take a look.” He said, setting his spatula down. Ben stepped aside, letting George squeeze in to examine his efforts. “Oh! I see what happened. Wrong piping tip.” He said. He ruffled through a small ziplock, fingers grasping a slightly smaller tip. “Try this one.” 

Ben fumbled to replace the tip, mumbling at the splotchy blobs on the parchment, knuckles smearing against them. “Ah crap. I'm sorry.” Ben apologized, glimpsing the frosting dappling his hand. He raised his hand to his lips, tongue darting out to lap up the mistake, only to feel the bump of a napkin against his cheek.

“Oh--” George said. His voice came out as a soft exclamation, hand retracting the offer of the napkin as Ben licked at the frosting. Ben felt a little giddy, drinking in the sight of George turning pink. He turned and accepted the napkin, wiping off the remainder of the frosting. 

“I'm not that great at this, sorry.” Ben apologized. George cleared his throat,smiling as he placed the new tip on with ease. 

“Icing is tricky. It's why I wasn't offering cakes until a few years ago. My first ones looked like I did them blindfolded.” He said, demonstrating how to pipe out a small little pumpkin. Ben hummed with amusement.

“And my pumpkin?”

“Let's just be thankful Halloween is a scary holiday.” He said, finishing two or three others. “Here, now you try.” George stepped aside to let Ben attempt the task again. 

He held the frosting bag carefully, applying even pressure he had been slowly learning to master. (His first attempt sent frosting splattering over a very unsuspecting batch of cupcakes, which George insisted on keeping.) The tip worked well, piping out the first two or three ridges of a small pumpkin smoothly. The next few ridges were a challenge, with Ben posing the bag at different angles looking for a steady stance. George turned the parchment lightly with two fingers, facing the unfinished side towards Ben.

“This is easier. You've got it.” He said softly, eyes fixed on the little frosting pumpkin. Ben breathed out a shaky breath, squeezing the bag again, watching as the line came out zig zagged and uneven. This was awful. He had been so close, and now either the frosting was lumpy or Ben’s hands were shaking too hard to steady the tip. All because of one dumb pumpkin. He nearly jumped out of his skin when George’s hand reached around him to steady his wrist, fingers soft against his pulse. 

“Good, good. It's the end of the bag so apply more pressure.” George said, his other hand falling to Ben’s hip as he stood behind him. “It looks good.”

Ben flushed. He knew he meant the pumpkin, but...oh it was silly. Wasn't it? To maybe hope George was taking this time to look him over. He piped out the last few ridges of the confection, wondering if he was imagining the slight squeeze at his hip from George--silent encouragement as he watched him. 

“Look at that. Beautiful!” George said, plucking the new pumpkin and its parchment paper up. He examined it closely, letting Ben take a good look at it. “See? You've got the hang of this. I'm putting it on the top of the spooky hill.” 

“Not the top of the spooky---”

“ _ At the top. _ You've earned it.” George beamed. He scraped the pumpkin from its paper delicately, depositing it at the top of a little crafted hill on the cake. “Ben’s first pumpkin.” 

“And last.”

“Come now, we’ve got to fill out the pumpkin patch and then we can relax. Sound good, Benjamin?” Ben shifted on his feet, a bashful smile pinching his cheeks.

“Yeah, sounds great.”

* * *

Ben could feel the warmth spreading to his cheeks, the chilled wine in his glass heating up as he rolled it between his palms. 

Baking had ended well enough, with George spouting some praises as he slipped the cake into the storage fridge. With the night still young, and dinner consisting of a hastily ordered pizza, George had popped open a bottle of wine as the tv droned quietly in the background. Ben had never really been a wine person, then again he never really had time to be any sort of alcohol person. His college experience consisted of pouring a shot of his Red Bull into some dorm mate’s vodka, before locking himself in and downing the rest until his resting heart rate was akin to a hummingbird’s. 

But here with George, and a bottle of wine between them, Ben was able to sit back and enjoy the dry citrusy liquid in his glass. 

“Ah, we saw this special last week.” George said, flipping past a few channels. “Anything grabbing your eye?”

“Nah. Maybe just music?” Ben suggested. As lovely as it was to be in the middle of nowhere, the dead silence of the great outdoors still scared the crap out of him. It made him feel on edge, bringing back all those nights he slept on the trail. Ben took another long swig of his drink, washing the dread back with vigor. 

He watched as George fiddled with the record player, finding something in the collection Martha left behind. “Not to be presumptuous but...jazz?” He asked, holding up a faded record cover.

Ben laughed, taking another hearty sip, and topping off his glass. “Classy. Put it on.” A few moments later the soft white static of the record player was replaced by the sound of saxophones.

“Ah yes. A jazz staple.” Ben mused, swirling his glass. George smiled, albeit a little shyly.

“I don't make the rules.”

“I thought jazz had no rules.”

“Well...loose rules.”

“Dangerous. Musicians without a cause.”

George plopped back down on the couch, taking up his glass. He draped his arm over the back of the couch, fingers lightly brushing Ben’s shoulder as he did so, sending small prickly sparks out over his arms. Ben bit his lip, edging just a bit closer to George.

“I, uh, I think it's the wine but...I hate frosting. It sucks.” Ben confessed, leaning back onto George’s arm.  “It sucks and it makes me feel dumb.” 

George laughed, and Ben felt his breath leave him at the sight of that crooked smile. “I don't like it either. But you did a fantastic job. And we don't get cake orders too often so, it's a relief.” He said, sipping on his drink. “Not because of you! Just because of frosting...in general.” 

Ben can feel his skin hum, fingers trembling as they hold the glass. If there was ever a time, ever a place,  _ this _ was it. Here, on their little beat up couch, with the dogs lounging lazily and enough wine to make it feel less like an advance and more like a dream. 

And what a dream it would be. Just a few moments, a small handful of glances and gentle touches, and he could be in that lap and acting out every fantasy he'd had flit through his mind these last four weeks. All the sweet kisses he craved. The dirty things he imagined George could do with those strong hands as he spent the night whimpering and making full use of his cock ring, alone in his bed. But, if he did this right, not anymore. He could be in a nice big bed with George. Wake up with George. Be with  _ George.  _

He glanced over at George, looking for some sign that this is worth pursuing. A hopeful look, nervous shifting, anything. George by comparison looked calm. Legs crossed comfortably, head lolling back on the couch, eyes half closed-- just enjoying the closeness. 

And then all of a sudden everything felt off. The warmth of wine on his cheeks felt too hot. The room felt tilted, warping into some grotesque parody of itself. The homey, worn decor looked tired and drab. The dogs looked strange, gnawing at their toys with some macabre fascination. His own hands were numb, and holding the small glass was a feat of strength. 

His chest tightened, dread rushing to the forefront of his mind. This was an  _ awful _ idea. He couldn't hit on  _ George _ . God what was he? He was ungrateful. Terrible. Awful. This man took him into his home, nursed him back to health, kept him out of the cold, and how does he repay him? 

Lies. Trickery. 

And now here he was about to throw himself at George. Betray whatever little honor he had scraped for himself since he invaded George’s privacy. What an ungrateful little brat he was.

His eyes searched around the room, searching desperately for something to focus on. Something to ground him and keep him level. Captain, where was Captain? Of course, when he needed that dog, he was probably sleeping under the bed. He kept going, his gaze falling hopelessly to the bookshelf. Good god the bookshelf. With this homage to  _ Alex. _

Alex whose presence might as well still be here.  The law book on the shelf was a glaring reminder that he was not the first house guest. He wasn't even the best house guest. Had it not been for Alex’s disappearance, he would have gone onto an Ivy League, finished on time, gotten some prestigious job right out of college. Not like him. A Yale dropout. Riff raff. A light weight. 

Despite his better judgement, Ben threw back the rest of his wine, it washing down his throat harsh and stinging. What in the world did he even think he was going to do to George anyway? He’d barely had a curious make out session, let alone anyone  _ touch _ him. God knows George wouldn't want some horribly awkward virgin grinding against him, fumbling for some pace or rhythm that escapes him. He was too shy anyway, he couldn't even work up the courage to sleep with Nate when he had the chance. A  _ literal _ on-top-of-one-another chance and he passed it by. 

Can't kiss. Can't fuck. Can't bake. 

But he  _ could. _ He could do those things. He  _ wanted  _ to do those things. And with George too. He could be anything he wanted, truly. He could...he could…finally repay him. 

“Benjamin, are you alright?” 

Ben let his empty glass roll from his fingers, throwing his arms around George’s neck, catching his lips just as his breath hitched. Ben could feel their lips crush together, George dropping his glass to the floor with a dull thud against the carpet, a dark stain spreading as Ben clambered on top of him.

“Ben, I--”

“ _ Please, please. Just--” _ Ben locked their lips again, only for a brief moment before he felt the sensation of George's hand wedge between their chests, breaking their contact. 

“This...this...you're not ok, Ben, let's just--”

“No! No no no, I want this. I can do this.” Ben babbled, pressing his forehead to George’s. “I can do this for you.” He breathed, trying his damned hardest to work against the two palms flat against his chest.

“ _ Benjamin.” _

“ _ Yes.” _ Ben sighed, swinging his leg over to straddle George. It was stopped by a firm hand, and guided back onto the couch. 

“Ben. Stop this. You're a little drunk, it's fine, just...let me help you get to bed.”

Ben felt his lips curl into a smile at that, though it hardly seemed coy or funny. It didn't feel like him. But it could be. Or it was. Or it is. He didn't quite know anymore. What he did know is that his hands were traveling downward, skimming over George’s sides, tugging at the belt loops of his pants.

George took that as the time to stand up, trying his very best to guide Ben safely to his side of the couch, but only managing to help Ben slump off the edge of the cushion and to his knees on the carpet, where he could feel the spilled wine seeping through his sweatpants. His hands clutched at George’s hips desperately.

“No, no please. George, I can…” he struggled to find the words, the room starting to spin and his arms shaking from strain. His knuckles turned white as they grasped at George’s hips, tears springing to his eyes.  _ Say it.  _ “I can…”  _ Say the damn thing and let it be.  _ “I can finally repay you,  _ please.” _

From his spot he could feel George step back, try to break his hold and raise him up, but his knees remained anchored to the floor. His stomach heaved and churned, and Ben pressed his face to the front of George’s jeans to steady himself. If he were more sober he'd be mortified at how he nuzzled against the zipper; then again if he were more sober, they'd still be having a pleasant evening. 

“Oh, George please,  _ please-- _ I can be good. I promise. Just take me,my virginity, and I’ll know. I’ll know. I… I know I'm nothing special. I'm not Alex, but  _ oh, I could be--” _

Ben’s rant was cut short as George ripped him up from the floor, grasping him tightly by the shoulders. All at once the hazy uncertainty of drunkenness shattered and Ben was face to face with George, his eyes filled with tears and anger. It takes all of Ben’s strength not to pass out as George shakes him by the shoulders--hard, hissing through gritted teeth.

“I.  _ Never.  _ Touched. Him.” 

His voice was coarse and broken, years of hurt welling deep from in his chest. “And I never told you about him. You've been  _ spying  _ on me?” He said. Ben felt a wretched cry leave his throat, certain he'd have bruises from where George was grabbing him. 

“G-George, please, I-I made a mistake. I was  _ wrong _ , ok? I was wrong, but I know you didn't hurt him. A-and Mr. Sackett---”

“You called  _ Nathaniel? _ Spoke behind my back after you did this?” He asked, tears starting to roll down his face. “I… I have been alone here for six years. Six. And the moment I let someone in, the moment  _ I think…” _ he stopped short, eyes pinched close. Ben could feel the snot and tears rolling down his own face.

“George, I’m...I’m”

“No. Enough of this.” He said, pushing Ben back. If it was to get Ben to let go, the deed didn't work. Ben only grasped harder, pulling at George’s shirt. 

“George--”

“Get off.”

“George!”

“Go to your room, Benjamin. I'm done with this.” 

“Listen,  _ please!”  _ Ben cried, fists twisting in the material of George’s shirt. He'd done it now. He'd fucked everything up. Lost George’s love. His kindness. All because he didn't know when to keep his nose to himself. He couldn't let George push him away like this. He couldn't leave him like this, without explaining. Ben couldn't  _ leave.  _ And apparently, couldn't keep his mouth shut, as every dumb, wine pried thought in his head came tumbling from his mouth like a faucet.

“I've had  _ enough.”  _

An arm came around his waist, George hoisting him over one shoulder. The rough jerk caused his stomach to flip, and Ben could taste pizza and wine, in all it's bile flavored glory. He remembers shouting something, anything, as George marching him down the hall to his room, throwing open the door and tossing him onto the mattress.

“Please, please, George---”

The door slammed shut and clicked. 

Ben drunkenly rushed to the door, fumbling with the knob. Locked. His fists banged pitifully on the wood, voice hoarse from screaming at the top of his lungs.  _ Begging  _ for the door to open and for his George to come in and scoop him up. Coddle him. Comfort him. Tuck him in and make sure everything is ok. 

But George didn't come back. He didn't even answer the hellish screams Ben laid into the door for a good half an hour. At some point Ben wondered if he’d gone mad, if this was a dream and he'd wake to see George making breakfast. That he’d spent the night banging some door deep within the recesses of his imagination.

But the bruises on his knuckles spoke otherwise. Ben eventually slumped against the door, voice gone and hands swollen, and wept. 


	10. Chapter 10

That awful night ended with Ben curled on the floor, ready to spend the night on the cold hardwood had it not been for the tiny whimpers coming from under his bed. Captain, awoken by the noise, cowering beneath the bed amongst shoe boxes and hidden doggy toys. He came out as he saw Ben cry, licked at his face and whined until Ben scooped him into his arms. Not able to live with ruining his relationship with George  _ and  _ Captain, Ben crawled into bed, giving the pup his spare pillow to rest on. He fell asleep sobbing into his pillow, petting Captain with trembling hands.

The next morning he heard George rise to make the delivery. Only half awake, the sounds of George at work felt almost reassuring. He would shower. Make coffee. Send off the pastries. Just as usual. Ben didn't join him, he couldn't. Not with the door locked. The sounds of morning routine chugged along, with the smell of a quick egg in the pan, followed by the rustling of the dog kibble bag. Captain stirred from his spot against Ben’s chest, a tiny whine escaping him. 

Footsteps searched the house, the three other dogs at their bowls, as George looked for Captain. “ _ Goddammit.”  _ Came a hushed whisper as George approached the door. Ben closed his eyes, pulling the covers to his nose as the door clicked open. George cracked it open only a fraction, just enough to get Captain’s attention.

“ _ Here, boy.”  _

Ben frowned beneath the quilt as the treacherous pup left him on the bed, skipping towards the door where George hurriedly closed it after scooping him up. He didn't lock it again. 

Ben sat in silence, listening for the sound of dogs playing outside as George let them out for their morning exercise. He should get up. He should go out there and apologize for that embarrassing mess of an evening. But something kept him bolted to the bed...some lingering guilt that told him this was exactly what he deserved.

Ben wasn't a good person by any means. Not a good person like  _ George.  _ He didn't volunteer for youth or take in wayward souls. He could barely help his own friends when they needed him. No, Ben was a leech. Yeah, that's the word that fit...a leech. Something small and squishy that sucks the life out of those around it, siphoning little bits of them until they're a dried up husk, unable to care for themselves or anyone else. Hell, he was a leech to Caleb. Always using his place as a hideout for his disastrous family fights. He leeched off Nate, sucking the happiness from his life until neither of them would return to Yale. And he was leeching off George in the most despicable way; burrowing into his home--his refuge--touching everything with tiny, greedy fingers.

Ben turned over in bed, holding onto the pillow for dear life. He didn't deserve this warm bed. He deserved to die out on that trail. Somewhere dark and cold, where the scavengers would pick him apart and give him purpose. He'd return to the earth the way he felt right now; like an utter piece of shit. 

The dogs had returned to the house, yipping and scurrying up and down the hall in search of Ben. Right about now was the time Ben would extend their playtime inside, teaching them silly tricks as they watched the little treat in his hand eagerly. But not this morning, and Ben doubted George was going to kneel on the floor with them to play. Their distressed whimpers supported this thought as George went about the rest of his day. 

And so 6 am turned to 9...turned to noon...turned to 4 pm.

Ben ignored the rumbling in his stomach, upset with how soft and spoiled he had become in George’s care. A few hours without food and his insides were twisted. On the trail he could last two days on a strip and a half of jerky. It wasn't pleasant, in fact it was excruciating, but he survived. His mouth felt dry and fuzzy, not having had a proper glass of water since before the whole ordeal started. 

But still Ben refused to leave. When the pain became unbearable, he simply closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep. He'd sleep until he wasted away if need be. Well, almost away--Ben would drag himself into the woods when the time was right. No need for George to have to call a coroner, have him finally identified and shipped back to mom and dad. No...the woods was better. 

The sounds of dinner started, and Ben could smell the garlic hit the pan from across the house. His stomach lurched, urging him to follow it. Be an adult and apologize, if only to stuff his belly with sautéed spinach. The smell of meat and gravy soon followed, a smell which Ben remembers as George’s pot roast. He could see it in his mind’s eye. Fat and juicy, sitting on browned carrots and onions, swimming in gravy. His stomach let out a loud gurgle, and Ben flipped himself over onto the bed, stuffing a pillow between the mattress and his aching belly. 

Suddenly a knock came at the door, and then a voice.

“Ben?” 

Even the sound of George right now broke his heart. Ben scrambled off the pillow, scrubbing the tear streaks from his face with his hands as best he could. “Y-yeah, come in.” He stuttered. George entered the room, his face tired and somber. Ben readied himself. He knew what would happen. He would be asked to leave. 

George sat on the edge of Ben’s bed, staring at his hands. “I…” he paused to suck in a breath. “I shouldn't have manhandled you like that last night. It wasn't right.” There was a silence, one that Ben took to mean it was his turn to speak.

“I shouldn't have kissed you--threw myself at you.” It was hard, since really Ben had a multitude of things to apologize for. “And I'll apologize for the rest of my shitty actions, too...I promise.” 

From his spot on the bed Ben could see George’s hands begin to tremble. He wanted to reach out and hold them, but decided he had done enough inappropriate touching. His cheeks burned at the memory of nuzzling against the zipper of George’s pants, and he shrunk back on the bed to give him space.

“Why?” 

Ben didn't need to clarify what he was referring to. He just jumped into it. “I was scared...not because of you, though! Well, a little. I'm not used to generosity. So some guy who lives all alone picks you up...promises you food...lets you live in his house, but never lets anyone see you living there…I was suspicious.” 

George nodded, tears in his eyes. “That's...that's fair. You didn't know me. But I also didn't know  _ you.  _ When I told Nathaniel you had raised a knife at me on the trail he advised me not to let you stay longer than it took to recover.” George wiped a tear away with the back of his hand. “And like a fool I didn't think twice about that. You're northern, I could tell by your accent. You'd been on that trail so long. I thought you hadn't heard the rumors in town yet. I felt safe enough.” 

Ben picked at his cuticles nervously. “If you were scared to let me stay, why did you bother bringing me here?” 

George clenched his jaw, more tears welling in his eyes. “Because my bringing you here was less than humanitarian.” 

Ben felt his heart skip a beat, unsure of just what that meant. George wrung his hands, keeping his eyes to them as he spoke. 

“I go to the woods, once every few weeks, on a fool’s mission. For  _ years  _ I’ve believed that he ran away. That he took to the woods for a get away, and that he would try to find a new place. 

But years are, well, long. He never turned up at any of his colleges. I checked the graduate lists when they came out a few years back. My going out there is to look for his remains.” 

Ben edged closer, risking putting his hand on George’s arm. He didn't flinch. “When I saw you...all I could see was Alex. Cold and alone and at the end. And I hope...I beg everyday that if he was found the way you were...someone would bring him in. Keep him  _ alive _ . Because I  _ can't _ wrap my head around that fact that he's dead. I just  _ can't _ . He was too young.” 

Well, there it was. The selfish center to the generosity he had tortured himself over all these weeks. A deep longing to believe someone dead was still alive, and paying karma forward. Ben's heart was in pieces. He had hurt George deeply. Been spared by some lingering faith that Alex was alive and then threw his memory in George’s face. 

“I'm...”  _ Sorry.  _ Just say  _ sorry.  _ Anything was better than what was happening right now; the shaking, the tightness in his throat, tears already making tiny stains on the quilt over his lap. “ _ I’m sorry!” _

It came out in a rush, like a child who could no longer take being scolded by their parents. His face was in his hands, shoulders heaving as he sobbed into his palms. God, he was an idiot. A big baby for letting any of this happen. 

Ben felt George’s hand touch his shoulder. “Oh, Benjamin, don't cry.” He whispered, scooting closer on the bed. “Please, look at me.” Ben shook his head, curling up so that he could hide beneath the blanket, clutching his pillow. 

“No, I can't---” 

“Why?” 

“I'm so  _ embarrassed. _ ” Ben choked. “I ruined  _ everything.  _ You were so nice and I couldn't  _ trust  _ it and now I have to  _ leave.  _ And I liked it here...I liked you...and now I'm going to be out there  _ again and--” _

George wrapped an arm around Ben’s waist, gently lifting him up so that the two sat side by side on the bed, with Ben’s head cradled to George’s chest. “I'm not kicking you out, Ben. This was...this was just something that needed to be cleared.”

Ben sniffled, burying his face deeper into George's soft blue shirt. “I made an ass of myself.” George chuckled.

“You had a  _ tantrum.  _ And believe it or not I had 2-4 of those a week with Alex.” George sighed. “But...I don't want to have tantrums with you. I enjoy your company  _ greatly.  _ And I...I got spooked. The way things went down last night was exactly how it happened with Alex. And then he was gone.”

George tipped Ben’s chin up to better see him. “I don't want to lose my best baker.” Ben laughed, though he was embarrassed to hear it come out as a tearful little snort. He must have looked a mess; eyes blotchy, tear stained cheeks and a red runny nose. Yet George looked him over with care, his thumb absentmindedly brushing over his bottom lip, and Ben felt his face flush. 

“I don't want to lose  _ you. _ ” 

They stayed like that for a moment, neither of them acknowledging each other’s silence; not until the sound of dogs yapping and high shrill beep of the smoke alarm sounded.

“My pot roast!” George cried, leaving Ben on the bed to face the disaster in the oven. Ben could hear more barking, more swearing as the sweet savory smell of meat was replaced with a sharp charred aroma.

“ _ Oh, fuck. _ Ben?” 

“Yeah?”

“Is pizza ok for tonight...again?”

* * *

With the seal broken, and Alex officially part of their lives, George had a plethora of new stories to share. Cross legged on the couch, full and lazy, George was deep into another tale of Alex’s misadventures. Tormenting teachers, almost burning down kitchens, Alex seemed to be the least likely student to take a liking to baking. Let alone be accepted to several ivy leagues. Then again, George admired his drive. Alex was a shark. If he wanted something, he made it bleed, no matter how big of a bite he needed to take it of it. 

“I didn't know how serious he was to win this bet. I can barely bake a soufflés without the thing collapsing. He  _ insists  _ he's going to win.”

Ben took a long sip of his soda. “And did he?”

George nodded, “Oh yes. Turns out Alex went on some message board and connected with-- and get this -- a chef over in  _ France. _ I Skyped with him once Alex won. Really nice kid. We still speak sometimes but my French is almost nonexistent.” 

Ben laughed. “Not even a little French?”

“What can I say? I know baking and not much else.” George sighed. He sank back into the couch, closing his eyes for a moment. “This feels nice. Talking about him...the real him. Not the kid they plastered all over the news.”

“Yeah, it really does.” Ben said. Ben stretched out so that his legs lay across George’s lap; an action that earned a hand rubbing soothingly against his knee. It felt warm and comforting, filling Ben’s chest with a tingle of excitement. 

“We’re ok...right, Ben?” 

Ben’s heart fluttered. “Uh, yeah. I mean...if you can forgive me.” He mumbled, staring down into his glass, watching the bubbles fizz to the top. George hummed.

“I can. In small doses.” 

“That's fair.” 

Another long silence followed. They seemed to be coming more frequently today. Maybe it was the fight, or maybe it was the fallout, but silence felt good. Pleasant, easy silence that fell on them effortlessly, with no desire to fill it. No crickets. No cars. Just the sound of an old refrigerator humming, and the click of tiny nails on the linoleum kitchen floor as Cloe rooted around for a toy. 

Nice welcoming silence, with George’s hand heavy on his knee. 


	11. Chapter 11

Ben swung open the door before the bell was rung, smiling warmly to free their guest. 

“Mr.Sackett--”

“Please, call me Nathaniel.” Sackett said, turning his portly self sideways to enter the door to George’s house. He gave Ben a once over, proud smile on his lips. “What did I say? A few weeks and you’d be well fed and healthy. George is no joke.” He said. Ben stepped aside to let him into the house, gesturing towards the kitchen.

“Nathaniel, just in time! It's frosted and ready to go. But I mean it, you didn't have to drive up here. I could have delivered it.” George said. He was busy assembling a baker’s box, a small chocolate cake nestled inside. 

“Nonsense, George, it's almost Thanksgiving and you're busy. I'm just grateful you could do my niece’s cake at all.” He said, taking a wad of cash from his pocket. George swatted his hand away.

“No, none of that. Free of charge.” He said, finishing up the bakers twine. Sackett reached over, stuffing the money into George’s shirt pocket with thick fingers.

“I'm  _ paying _ ”

“ _ No. _ I owe you for Ben’s checkup, still.”

“That was  _ also  _ free.” Sackett said, throwing a wink to Ben. “I wasn't going to make you pay for the boy. You can deny it until you're blue in the face but you don't owe me.” Ben smiled, grabbing a bag from under the sink.

“So, niece’s first birthday?” He asked, walking over to where George could bag the cake. Sackett smiled warmly.

“Yes, the chocolate year. I hope everyone gets a taste before it ends up in her hair.” He said. Ben shared a sympathetic chuckle, all too aware of those first birthday parties the church parents would throw. A bunch of adults would bring their unruly toddlers, bounce them on their knee and pretend they were friends with the birthday child. Then they drank and whined until the cake came out, and the birthday child was face down in it, making the mess of the century. He didn't envy Sackett’s position.

George handed off the bag, trying once more to slyly tuck the money under the twine of the box. “George,  _ enough. _ I'm paying for the darn cake.” He said, returning the money to George’s shirt front pocket. He tapped it twice before pointing a wary finger in George's face. “Don't spend it all in one place.” 

“You should talk.” 

Ben started wiping down the kitchen table, watching as Sackett headed towards the door with George. They joked a bit, mentioning plans for the upcoming holidays. Another baking rush, another dinner planned to relieve the stress. But Ben couldn't help but notice the way Sackett lingered in the doorway, looking George over the same way he had done to him upon entering the house.

“You look good, George.  _ Happy.” _ He said, though he made the effort to lower his voice, attempting to keep Ben out of the conversation. “Is there anything here I should know about?” Ben hurriedly dropped his gaze to the table as Sackett threw a knowing glance over to him.

George shifted awkwardly, his arms crossed in front of his chest. “I feel better, if that's what you're getting at. It's not quiet anymore.” Sackett nodded, waiting for George to continue. Ben could hear George clear his throat. “I missed the company.” 

Out of the corner of his eye, Ben glimpsed Sackett tap George on the arm sympathetically. “I know you have. It's been quite the few years.” He raised his voice back to normal volume as he stepped out the door. “Well then, I’m off. Thank you, George. Thank you, Benjamin. Happy Thanksgiving.”

“You too!” Ben called out, catching a wave as George closed the screen door. 

George returned to the kitchen, grabbing the clipboard off the top of the fridge to cross out a few items. “Almost done! Hey, if we get this packed up we might actually get an early night off.” George mused. Ben let out a laugh, scratching a sticky spot of dough off the table with his nail. 

“We haven't had that in two weeks.” 

George hummed in agreement, pausing a minute as he looked over his list. It was an odd, tense silence; one Ben hadn't felt in quite some time with George. Ben scrubbed at the dough, this time with a twinge of anxiety. George took a step closer to him, knuckles grazing the table lightly.

“Say...would you like to get out of the house tonight?” George asked. Ben straightened up, caught off guard by the question. George kept his gaze to the table, focusing on where his knuckles met the smooth wood. “I checked TV guide and it looks like more of the same. I figured we could do something else with our evening. Switch things up.” 

Ben stopped messing with with the sticky patch, having scratched it all up. He now took his nervous tendencies out on the dough residue stuck under his thumbnail. “What did you have in mind?” He asked. His voice was treacherously soft, wavering like a hopeful lovesick schoolboy. 

“Uh, well, there's a nice cinema in the next town over. I figure we catch something new?” George asked, cheeks delightfully pink. Ben felt his knees wobble. Hell yes he wanted to go. Go  _ out _ with George. As much as he loved curling up on the couch, head against George’s shoulder as they tried to stay awake through some long winded documentary, the chance to leave this house and  _ do _ something with him felt thrilling. How long had it been since George left to enjoy a movie? And how long had he been thinking about taking  _ him _ out of this house and to someplace more public.

“Yeah.” Ben said, “I’d like that.” 

George tapped against the table, smile spreading over his face. “Good! Great...uh. We’ve...we’ve still got some things to knock out before we go, then. Can you take the dogs out?”

Ben whistled, listening for the little tap taps of four scrambling dogs. “Mopsey, Tipsy, Cloe, Captain!” He called, opening the kitchen side door. “Outside, outside!” He wasn't sure if the dogs listened to him the same way they listened to George, but it brought a little spark of joy to his heart to see them trot out the door one after the other, ready to explore the vast open yard.

“I’ll be back in a bit, George.”

“Have fun.” 

Ben let the screen door click shut, following the dogs out into the cool November air. He plopped down in the dead grass, keeping watch as the pups nosed and pawed at the piles of crunchy leaves blown in with the autumn wind. 

Captain didn't wander too far, always circling back to sniff at Ben in the dirt, climbing into his lap as if to tempt him to play. “Hey buddy.” Ben said, scratching behind his floppy ear. “Think you can manage a few hours tonight alone? We’re going out.” Ben scooped Captain up, placing a kiss against the pup’s head as he licked Ben's cheek excitedly.

“He’s taking me out…”

It came out giddy, Ben hardly able to contain his excitement as he thought about the trip. Just him and George sitting pretty in the back of some dark theater, George’s hand on his knee as the screen flickered before them. It sounded just perfect. 

Ben basked in that fantasy for a while, only half aware that the dogs had begun to crawl all over him, eager for a little attention. From the house he could hear the faint ring of the kitchen phone, and farther off, the sounds of birds who hadn't abandoned the almost bare trees. Even without their leaves he knew them well. Which had long claw marks from a bear that had wandered through George’s property last year. Which lead to the small trail that circled his property. The quickest way to the stream, and which wells were still in use. It was an unfamiliar woods that under George’s care had become home, and Ben had no intention of leaving it. 

But a strong wind had begun to pick up, sending a strong chill through Ben as he sat in the dirt. The dogs had begun to chase the leaves that sped towards the forest line, and Ben decided now was a good time to reel them back inside. Just a short whistle, a little coaxing as Ben made inside look just as fun as the wind swept yard, and four little pups sped back towards the house. 

“It's getting cold out!” Ben said. He wiped his feet on the door mat as his eyes adjusted to the light of the kitchen. Sitting at the table was George, looking somberly out the window. “George?”

George looked up. “I...I'm sorry, Ben. Something’s come up with the business. We might have to postpone tonight.” Ben felt his gut clench, unsure of what could possibly push them back so drastically. He took a seat next to George, placing a hand on top of his.

“What happened?” 

“A huge mix up with the suppliers. I told my dry ingredients guy to have my order ready the day  _ after _ Thanksgiving, and he has it the day  _ before. _ Which puts a huge dent in my schedule because it takes forever to load up the truck, and then I need to see Sally on the other end of town for apples. And she's taking the kids away this Thanksgiving weekend so if I don't grab it now--”

“We don't have apples for the next order. Ah.” Ben finished. George sighed, moving his hand so that it lazily cradled Ben’s. Ben tried not to blush as George ran his thumb over his wrist.

“I was just looking forward to a night off. And it's not fair that you've been cooped up in here for months.” George sighed. They sat there in silence, the kitchen clock ticking loudly as they accepted that their potentially romantic evening was dashed. Ben felt his heart sink into his stomach. There’d be other nights. Maybe not until after Christmas...but other nights would come. Unless…

“I could go with you.” 

George jolted up, his hand withdrawing from Ben’s to fiddle in his lap. “I can't let you do that, Ben. It's heavy--”

“I'm not sick anymore. I help you unload all the time. With two sets of hands it’ll get done, right?” Ben asked, nudging George playfully. George’s mouth pinched into a frown.

“It's not just the work, Ben. It's  _ Alex _ . I can't...I don't know how they’ll react.” Ben rose from his chair, grabbing his coat.

“If you want me to stay, fine. But you deserve this night off, George. And I'm not Alex. This isn't the same. I'm just helping you pick up supplies.” 

George looked Ben over warily, carefully considering how bad it would be to take him into town. Maybe it was the promise of a night off, or some decision to try and move past the last few years, but a faint smile touched George’s lips as he joined Ben.

“Let me grab my coat.”

* * *

Ben watched as the road roll by, able to piece together the bits of highway he remembers from his ride to George’s so many weeks ago. As they passed the McDonalds, and a few green road signs for the turn off trail heading into the mountains, Ben realized just how close George was to the trail he almost died on. Only a few minutes between the cozy home he had found, and being a heap of bones somewhere in the underbrush.

The thought made him reach out to George, place his hand on his knee and squeeze as they drove silently towards town. George smiled briefly, his own worried thoughts occupying him as the town signs ticked down the miles. “I told you I lived close to the trail.” He whispered. Ben nodded. 

“Thank goodness you did.” They shared a pained chuckle, slipping back into tense silence as they turned off the highway, and into town. From his seat Ben could see the first few signs of life; white and blue painted houses along the road. They sat at the end of long driveways, with big shady trees and well kept yards, sporting colorful mailboxes at the edge of the road. Ben studied them as they whizzed by, one after the other, perfect little dollhouses. 

Main Street was just as picturesque. Smooth paved streets with wrought iron street lamps, red brick sidewalks lined with small shops. People walked leisurely to their cars, bags in hand as they fought against the strong wind. They moved slow here. slower than anyone in Setauket ever did; maybe that's why after over half a decade George felt like his fair share of gossip hadn't been left behind. A quick glance over to the drivers side confirmed Ben’s suspicions, seeing George’s knuckles white as he clutched the steering wheel.

“It's going to be ok, George. In and out. I won't talk to anyone if you don't want me to.” Ben said, giving George’s knee another squeeze. Ben secretly liked doing that, though this time he swore it was for George’s well being and not his own. George shook his head.

“You don't have to  _ not _ talk to people. Just...be on guard. People down here are nosy, and they haven't heard much about me outside my baking routine.” He said. Ben hummed. 

“I understand.” It was just like his father’s church. Smiling, nice looking people would come up to him after service to make nice. They'd ask about school, ask about homework. Make you lower your guard down before trying to snake out information. Leering questions about whether Ben had a girlfriend yet, about why a handsome young man wasn't fighting them off with a stick. Questions about parties and crushes and things that made Ben uncomfortable. Little probing jabs into the secrets he couldn't even share with his family. Yes, Ben knew all about nosy people, but that still didn't mean he was prepared to deal with the ones George knew. 

The truck pulled up to a small warehouse, just a ten minute drive from Main Street. Glancing around at the other cars, Ben could see they were all from various restaurants and catering businesses. A restaurant supply depot. 

George cut the engine and opened the door. “Alright, follow me. My guy is inside.” He said. Ben hopped out, shivering in the cold air. He followed close behind George, glancing warily at the men in the parking lot. 

Inside was clean and orderly, and kind of felt like Costco for restaurateurs. Large shelves with pallets piled high with sugar, flour, and different dry ingredients. Walking down the aisles, Ben spied large sections for bulk meat, vegetables, and table settings. George glanced back at him as they turned a corner. 

“Big right? Luckily I only get some dried goods and mixings here. Or else I'd be spending all my money here.” He said, just as they reached a narrow counter running along the back wall. A man leaned lazily against the counter, flipping through order sheets.

“Danny, hey. You have my order?” George said, approaching the register. The man didn't look up from his sheets, but gave a quick thumbs up towards a door in the corner.

“Same as usual. Let me know when you're close to done and I’ll bring out the second half.” Ben watched as George shoved his hands in his pockets, hiding his nervous fidgeting.

“Uh, that's ok, Danny. I have some help today. We can take the order in one trip.” 

Danny looked up, eyes falling on Ben almost immediately. Ben steadied his expression, giving a short nod of acknowledgement. Danny looked back at George, and pointed at the door again. “Through there, George. Right side of the room.” 

George hurried to push the door open, grabbing a couple dollies. “Ben, just ease it on.” He instructed. Ben did as told, making quick work of the pallets worth of flour and sugar. He then followed George out the door, waiting as he paid up and started back towards the parking lot. 

“That wasn't so bad.” Ben said, bringing the cart to a stop at the truck. George shrugged.

“Danny isn't a big talker. It's Sally I'm worried about.” 

* * *

Sally’s farm was on the other side of town, about a 35 minute drive from the restaurant depot. The land out here was patchy and isolated, dotted only by small farm houses sitting in bare dirt fields. George turned up the road, through rows of bare apple trees as they headed towards two buildings down the dirt driveway. The closest was a modest little building, with an open air porch market.

George took in a slow breath, putting the car in park. “We just need some apples. Let's make this quick.” He said, fumbling with the seatbelt. 

This place was nothing like the depot. It wasn't big and filled with indifferent people filling their carts. It was small, homey, and reeked of that nosy small town “charm” that made Ben’s skin crawl. No sooner did he exit the car did he feel the telltale sensation of eyes on him, following him, picking him apart as he trotted up the driveway behind George.

“Sally, you have my apples?” 

A short, wispy woman opened the screen door 

leading out to the stands. “George! Sorry about this little rush.” She said, gesturing to a few other customers mingling over the stalls of apples and jam jars. “We got a few people sent over by the Reverend to grab things for the food drive.” Sally smiled, and Ben felt his stomach churn.

“That's lovely.” George said. His tone was more honeyed than usual, in a way that made Ben double take. “The kids excited for vacation?”

The question went unanswered, Sally’s eyes landing on Ben. She looked him over with suspicion, a glimmer of something in her eye. And then it was gone, replaced with the finely crafted mask of southern hospitality. “And who are you, sweetheart? Haven't seen you in town.”

Ben cleared his throat. “I'm Ben. Culinary student up at state. I'm doing some assistant work for credit.” He said, plastering on his best church smile. The woman nodded and smiled, calling another girl over.

“Debbie, this is  _ Ben. _ George’s  _ new assistant. _ ” Sally stressed the sentence with urgency, motioning a tall blonde woman who Ben guessed was Debbie over to them. Debbie smiled, eerily similar to Sally’s, and shook Ben’s hand.

“You bake, sugar?”

“Yeah. Cakes...cookies...things like that.” Ben fumbled. He had the distinct feeling of being swarmed; latched onto by sticky fingered locals who trapped him like a fly in a web. Debbie quirked her head to the side.

“You're not from here. Northern?”

“Maine, yeah. I came down for college.”

Sally chuckled, replenishing the Granny Smith apples in one of the stalls. “I know that look. Sweet young thing is just trying to have some college fun away from Mom and Pop.” She glanced out of the side of her eye towards George. “As long as there isn't  _ too _ much fun.” A pause. “Your folks don't pay for you to goof off, y’know.” 

Ben had whiplash from that sentence alone. But there was no time to retort. Before he had the chance to form a response, Sally had turned her attention back to George, taking him up in the polite chit chat she had snubbed him of earlier. Vacation plans, new seedlings being potted, her little venture into cider, Sally had a way of drawing out a simple conversation. Despite George’s growing look of discomfort, the small talk continued, until Ben finally realized what was going on. Sally wanted him to be  _ seen. _

A small crowd of looky loos, doing a fairly poor job pretending to inspect their apples, had begun to form around the stands. They picked at their canvas bags, weighed their produce three times over just to stand close to Ben for a better look. Past Sally’s rather loud conversation, Ben could hear the whispers.

“Is that  _ George?” _

“Good lord. How young is  _ this one _ ?”

“I haven't seen him around...must be new.”

“Not for long.”

George cleared his throat, glancing down at his watch. “I hate to be rude, Sally, but we need to start going soon. Ben has some online assignments to hand in, and I don't want him to miss that.” Sally raised an eyebrow, but opened the screen door leading into the little shack.

“Alrighty then. Wouldn't want him to get bad grades on my account. I've got the bags back here.” George stepped through the door, and Ben moved to follow, only to have his sleeve caught by Debbie.

“The bags aren't that heavy, Ben. Besides! You're new to town, which means you haven't tried out apple butter! Come, let me fix you a little.” 

Ben threw a pleading look to George, who nodded solemnly. “Yeah, that sounds lovely.” The screen door slammed shut loudly, leaving all eyes on him as he followed Debbie to the little counter littered with open jars of jams and preserves. Ben shifted eagerly as Debbie picked up the knife and started buttering a little cracker. 

“Where are you staying, sugar?”

Ben cleared his throat. “Uh, with George.” She was taking an awfully long time buttering that fucking cracker. 

“We have some cheap apartments here in town, if you're interested. Sometimes it's just better to be on your own. Relax after work, meet some girls, have your own little space.” She said, still working the knife over the flimsy cracker. 

“It's fine, really. George’s baking stuff means working at 4 am. If I had to commute, I’d probably sleep right through our shift.” He joked. Debbie wasn't convinced.

“ _ Still.  _ It's quiet up there. Not much fun.” Ben was finally handed the damn cracker, the apple butter tasting too sweet and a little greasy on his tongue. 

He tried to focus on the texture, and not the people slowly stepping closer to him. Ben reached for a napkin, Debbie’s hand coming down on top of his in some display of concern. It seems they were done dancing around the details.

“ _How old are you?_ ” She asked.

Ben felt his heart skip, people close by waiting to see if he fell within some ideal range George preferred. Young, bright men far from their parents. All alone in a house in the middle of nowhere. Only this time they didn't plan to let one become a picture on a milk carton. 

“ _Twenty_.” Ben croaked. There was no lying around that. He's always had a baby face. He'd be lucky if they took him for his word. Debbie scrawled something onto a scrap of paper, pressing it into his hand.

“There's some great places for students just down Evergreen. Lots of young people. You should try it.” Ben shook his head, hearing the clatter of the screen door as George and Sally returned. 

“That's not necessary. My arrangement with George is perfectly fine. He's been a good host.” Ben said, raising his voice a little louder. Debbie backed off, and Ben went to retrieve the bags Sally was holding.

“Well it seems you're all sorted here.” Sally said, brushing off her hands. “We do hope to see you again, Ben. You must let us try something you've made.” Debbie handed off a small bag to Sally, who in turn gave it to Ben.

“Just a little welcome to town baggie. I hope you like jam.” She smiled. Ben returned the smile and glanced in the bag. Blackberry jam, peach strawberry, and the regrettable apple butter. 

“I can't wait to try. Happy Thanksgiving.” 

They climbed back into the truck, apples tucked safely into baskets in the back seat, and started the car. Ben tried not to liken the remaining eyes to deer, frozen and glazed over with a morbid curiosity that probed his very soul. Instead he turned to George, watching him as he pulled out of Sally’s driveway. His hands trembled, curled around the steering wheel for dear life, and the twitch in his plastered smile gave away how close he was to breaking.

“George--”

“Not here.” He breathed. “Never here.” 

They drove back in silence, Ben too afraid to breach the topic until George was ready. He rifled through the goody bag, examining the labels on a jar of peach strawberry jam. He rubbed his thumb over the embossed logo, wearing it down until it was faded beneath the pad of his finger. He did the same to the blackberry, and finally groped the bag for the remaining apple butter.

As he held the jar in his hand, thumb rubbing away at Sally’s smiling apple logo, his pinky brushed something beneath the jar. Turning it over, Ben spotted a small piece of paper taped to the base of the jar, with small handwriting scrawled across.

_ If it’s not safe to talk, reach us here _

Followed by a phone number.

Ben shoved the jar back into the bag angrily, setting it down and pushing it under his seat with a little kick. That _bitch_. Ben gnawed at his lower lip, drawing blood as he tried to steady himself. If this is how he felt, George would be leagues worse. He was quiet for now, but Ben knew that once their driveway was in sight he would most likely begin to unravel, until it all came out. 

It was exactly that.

Passing the McDonalds, George gripped the wheel tighter, blinking more as if to clear the tears from his eyes. His breathing was less even, more rough. He didn't respond when Ben squeezed his knee, only jiggled his leg with some redirected anxiety. As the car rattled up the driveway, Ben could hear sniffles. Pathetic little huffs as George let go of the mask, and embraced the comfort of his little house in the sticks. 

The dogs had begun to bark, eagerly awaiting the return of both their humans, but George didn't move once the engine was cut. He just sat there, blankly at first, eyes on the wheel. And then came a tear, then two more, until the numb expression on his face twisted and contorted into the most sorrowful display Ben had ever seen. George hunched over, shoulders shaking, forehead pressed to his hands on the wheel as this wave crashed harder on him, now sobbing openly--incoherently-- until Ben could finally make something out over the hiccuping.

“ _ I never touched him.” _


	12. Chapter 12

Ben had eased George inside, shooing the dogs as he brought him to his room. He left the lights off, letting George cry in the dark of the house freely without shame of being seen. It took a few minutes of coaxing, but soon Ben had George curled on the bed under his quilted throw blanket, hugging his pillow tightly.

“ _ George.” _ Ben whispered, smoothing some hair out of George’s eyes. “It's ok…” The sobbing had died down, leaving only shaky hiccuping cries that swelled with each new memory turned over in his mind. “I'm here, it's ok.” 

There was whining outside the door from the dogs, curious about the commotion happening inside the bedroom, but Ben pushed them from his mind as he tended to George. He quietly dabbed tissues over his tear stained cheeks, administering hushed whispers. Let the minutes tick by, a few minutes turning into an hour, with only soft sniffling breaking the silence. By now the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the last light of dusk in the room; their free evening had begun. 

George sniffled, turning his pillow over to a side less soaked with tears. “I'm so sorry, Benjamin.” He said. He took a fresh tissue to wipe at his face, blotting away at his cheeks and upper lip. “That I dragged you into that.” Ben’s heart sank, and he reached out to rub circles on George's back.

“No, hey...I wanted to go. I knew it was going to be rough. I just feel bad it was so hard on  _ you. _ If I knew how awful they were, God, I wouldn't have twisted your arm to let me go.” Ben said. Ben let his hands wander over George’s back, pressing deep into the tense muscle. George quieted his crying, breathing easier as the touch continued. 

Maybe it was the way George curled into himself, eyes fluttering close as Ben worked his hand over his back, but it broke Ben’s heart.  _ Sure _ , they had hugged. Leaned on each other occasionally, and touched knees, but it began to dawn on Ben that George hadn't had a comforting touch in  _ years.  _ That deep, aching feeling Ben felt on the trail. The longing for warmth that wasn't your own, that was loving and tender and  _ meant  _ for you. George had endured that horrible emptiness for years. Lay in bed by himself for years. Talked to no one for  _ years _ . 

Ben took both his hands, cupping George’s face so that he turned to look at him. He took a long moment, thumbing below the eyes, wiping away semi dry tears. He squeezed, ever so slightly, watching as George's cheeks turned pink and his eyes searched his own longingly. Ben smiled as George’s hands circled his wrists, keeping his touch in place.

“You're a  _ good _ person, George. Better than them by leagues. I know you...I believe you… and you don't deserve to be treated like that.” Tears welled in George's eyes, and Ben thumbed them away as they rolled down his cheeks. “I owe you  _ so much--” _

“You don't  _ owe _ me, Benjamin, honestly--”

“I know.  _ I know _ . But just...hear me out? I wasn't in a good place before I met you. Hell, I was  _ dying. _ And you took me in…” Ben paused to continue his soft stroking against George's cheek. “Despite all the pain they put you through, you still took me in. That's  _ brave. _ Braver than I ever was.” 

“You were on your  _ own--” _

“Not in the same way. Believe me, you’ve been through a lot more.” Ben removed his hands, scooting closer on the bed. “But, you're not alone anymore. So what do you say? The evening just started. I can make some pasta, we can channel surf and have a few beers. Get an early start on some Thanksgiving feasting?” 

George smiled, scrubbing his cheeks once more as he sat up. “Actually...you're right. I'm not alone anymore. So let's not stay in tonight. I'm good, I promise...and if you still want to...we can catch a movie?” Ben smiled so hard he felt his cheeks pinch.

“I’d love that.”

* * *

Ben fidgeted the whole ride over. It was exhilarating ; pure wonderful excitement that bubbled in his belly and caused him to jiggle his leg nervously. The cinema was about a half hour drive away, in the next town, giving George plenty of time to flip through the radio. Ben leaned his head against the headrest, watching George scowl at the country music stations.

“I just...don't get it.” He said, finally finding a classic rock station. “Good enough, right?”

Ben smiled. “If only they had a channel solely for the Go-Go’s greatest hits.” He joked. “Then you would be completely satisfied.” George reached over to swat Ben’s nose.

“Cheeky.” 

Ben hated to admit it, but he couldn't tell one town from another down here. They all looked the same, had similar names. Spring street vs Spring avenue. Main Street always had the few staples everyone needed; a post office, a bank or two. The fact that George could roll through town and distinguish any of this was through years of small town upbringing, where teeny tiny details were glaring. But, just as George said, there was a nice cinema in this town. It sat in the middle of a shopping strip, surrounded by a few open-’til-10 stores and a handful of eateries. George parked the car in the lot and turned to Ben.

“We’re going to do the whole popcorn and soda thing, I promise, but do you want dinner? Something quick while we pick out a film?” He asked, taking the keys out of the ignition. Ben glanced around, trying to spot what was in the area. A few pizzerias (a huge pass at this point), yet another McDonald's, one TGI Friday's that looked as though a fight could break out at any moment, and a Denny’s where a fight was  _ most definitely _ breaking out. Thankfully, Ben’s eyes landed on a small diner crammed between two parking lots. 

“Uh, the diner? Is that one any good?” 

“Yeah, let’s go.” 

They made quick work of their walk, setting a brisk pace to stave off the cold. Ben shoved his hands in his pockets, thanking George as he opened the 

door and ushered him out of the cold and into the warmth of the diner. 

It was cute; a little run down, but cute. Behind the counter were rows of “Employee of the Month” frames, each displaying a picture of a humorously dressed dog. Ben admired them as he slid into a scalloped backed booth, hands brushing patches hastily closed up with duct tape. A waitress came over, handing them both scratched up plastic menus with a smile.

“Take your time, hon.” 

Ben flipped through the menu, gazing at the various pictures of sandwiches, burgers and fries. “I'm going to warn you, I'm extremely boring at diners.” Ben warned, setting the menu down. “I order grilled cheese, a cup of soup, and a pickle. Every time.” 

George laughed, “That actually doesn't sound too bad.” He motioned the waitress back over, repeating the order, twice, before turning back to Ben. “You've got the right idea tonight.” Ben blushed, opting to fiddle with the napkin in his lap as George looked up movie times on his phone. 

“There's that civil war drama at 8.” He said, “Or that new sci-fi horror everyone's talking about.” 

“We've never talked about that sci-fi horror.” 

“That's because I don't want you to get scared and let all those dogs sleep on the bed.” George laughed. He passed the phone over, the film summary up on his movie app. “Here, take a look.”

Ben sighed, reading it aloud. “A small 1950’s town is terrorized by the arrival of an alien shapeshifting creature, mimicking the spooky outer space movie monsters of the big screen to prey on teens at the drive-in theater.” Actually, that didn't sound too bad. Spooky, blobby monsters, and a dark theater with George. 

“Let's do it. It sounds fun.” Ben said, sliding the phone back just as the waitress returned with their food. George raised an eyebrow.

“ _ I don't know.”  _ He said, breaking apart his grilled cheese. “Could be creepy. Sure you won't get nightmares?” He teased. Ben kicked George lightly under the table, digging into his own plate.

“ _ Yeah,  _ I’m  _ sure. _ I spent weeks out in the woods with wolves and bears and junk. I can handle this.” Ben said, throwing a little wink. “What time is the film?” 

“8:30”

* * *

Inside the theater was bustling, and George joined Ben in the concession line after trying to scope out a shorter line. “No luck. Everyone had the same idea we did.” He said. Ben shrugged, pointing at the remaining person ahead of them.

“Close enough. What're we getting?” 

George approached the counter,comically towering over the poor spindly high schooler working the concession stand. “Large popcorn, large coke, and...Ben? Candy?”

“Twizzlers.”

“Twizzlers.” 

The kid hurried about his work, filling drinks and scooping popcorn as George placed his money on the counter. He had swatted all of Ben’s attempts to pay, covering dinner and their tickets already, and although Ben tried to press a $20 into his hand George politely declined.

“My treat.” He whispered, passing Ben the coke. Ben cradled it with both hands, suppressing the stupid grin that threatened to cross his face. He followed George to the butter station, accepting a straw for their soda before noticing George take another. Germs maybe? Though why would he buy one drink if he wasn't going to just share as-is? Ben watched with morbid fascination as George stuck the straw in the popcorn bucket.

“What is happening?” He asked. George winked, placing the bucket under the butter dispenser, lining the straw up with the hole. He pressed the button, and Ben had to walk away as he watched the melted butter dribble through the straw and deep into the bucket.

“Oh my god. Don't talk to me.”

“This way you get butter at the popcorn on the bottom--”

“This is the most embarrassing thing I've ever seen and I'm mad I didn't think of it sooner. People are staring. Are you done?” 

George quickly drizzled a little more on the top, trotting after Ben. “Done! I'm done.” Ben let him catch up, but not without silently shaming him and his popcorn innovation. “Don't look at me like that, the butter is part of the price.” 

Despite the large crowds at the concession, Ben and George scored a mostly empty theater. The first two theaters sharing their show time filled up fast, leaving only the few adult stragglers and teenage couples to wander into theater 3. Ben snagged two seats in the very back. His heart had never raced so fast just waiting for the house lights to go down. George settled in, raising the arm rest dividing their seats with a bashful expression. “I'm too big for these seats.” He apologized. “I won't crowd you.” Ben took a long sip of his drink. George could crowd him all he wanted. 

The lights flickered off, and the previews rolled, soon giving way to the eerie first few chords of the film. It wasn't spectacular in any sense. The film was more hoaky than clever, and Ben found that it switched between satirizing sci-fi 50’s cliches, to wholeheartedly trying to pass them off as new concepts. A little snobby for a film that was essentially an excuse to make out with your date, but it kept Ben from giving in to his urge to initiate something. The theater was so dark, and they were mostly alone. Unless a couple turned around, no one would see them. What's a sneaked kiss here and there? Or an arm slung over his shoulders? 

But Ben kept to himself, afraid of repeating the god awful scene he made a month prior. Things were  _ good _ with George. They had somehow managed to get even closer than before. And although things had gotten undeniably flirtier, Ben feared that making a move would put George back on red alert. There was a scab that Ben was trying not to pick at. At least not now. Not when they had had such a wonderful evening so far. 

But oh, how wonderful it  _ could  _ be. Ben tried not to think about how soft and sweet George would kiss, his face silhouetted in silvery light from the screen. Their breath quick and needy, overpowering the cheesy, melodramatic screams of the actors. How Ben would run his hands up under George’s shirt, clawing at the warmth of his back as they forgot about the movie. The quiet, breathless laughter as they cut their activities short, not wanting to get caught doing anything in the theater. Clinging tightly to George’s shirt, where he could bury his face and pretend to be frightened by this god awful movie.

George nudged Ben, gesturing towards a young couple across the theater. Ben let out a huff, sharing in George’s amusement at their aggressive makeout session. “Ten bucks says he's shipping off in the morning.” George whispered. Ben covered his mouth, laughing into his hand.

“Twenty says he’ll write her everyday.” Ben said, before  having  to shush the laugh escaping George. “You're going to spill the popcorn!” Ben hissed, saving the bucket before it tipped. George offered some giddy apologies, focusing back on the movie just as the alien sucked another teenage couple out of the roof of their convertible. Ben cringed at the cgi, but let himself enjoy the last few action packed scenes of the movie. 

They didn't joke for the remainder of the movie, opting to pay attention as the alien onscreen was thwarted by the little rag tag gang of high school earthlings the town could muster; all of them putting aside their clichéd cliques to work against the common evil. Ben smirked to himself at the corny “ _ The End?” _ that floated across the screen as the house lights came back up, and the patrons filtered out of the theater.

* * *

Outside was even colder and darker than before, the last of the late night eateries starting to wind down and close up shop. They made their brisk walk to the car, hands shoved into their pockets as the wind picked up once more. 

“Who knew the creature’s only weakness was  _ bleach.”  _ George snorted, his breath trailing out in billowy clouds. Ben hummed, and balled his fists up for warmth.

“This film was clearly brought to us by Clorox.” He said, just as they reached the car. They spent a few chilly minutes warming up the engine, chatting about the movie and all its pitfalls. Ben listened as George recalled the old sci-fi horrors he saw as a kid, appreciating their attempt to replicate that for older audiences. Ben remarked that the use of cgi over old Hollywood practical effects kind of ruined that feel for him. 

The conversation dwindled on the drive back; a result of two weeks worth of overwork, and the inevitable sugar crash that follows a night of sugary snacks. It was soon replaced with the steady hum of the engine, and occasional whoosh of a passing car. Ben rested his head against the window, letting his eyes drift close as they headed home. It didn't slip by him that the last evening he spent in this car, he was certain he was being dragged to an early grave. 

If he tried hard enough, he could still feel the blanket George swaddled him in, soft against his wind chapped skin. He could imagine the warmth wrapped around him, and the heavy feeling of fast food on his empty stomach. And now it like a different reality, a version of him that never existed. Ben opened his eyes, catching a glimpse of his reflection in the dark glass of the window. Full, rosy cheeks. Eyes bright and sparkling. Clean shaven and well washed. Not a worry line in sight. The Ben from Setauket would have killed for this. He died for this. And look how far he's come. Look at how much he's done. 

The car pulled into the driveway, porch light marking their little home. The dogs howled briefly, awoken from whatever lazy position they were in. George clicked open the lock, shushing them as they stepped through the door. “Bed. Now.” He said, pointing to the corner littered with dog pillows. The pups left, and George flicked on the kitchen light, tossing his keys onto the table. 

“That was fun.” George said. He shifted awkwardly on his feet, unsure of how to move next. Ben hummed, that electrifying feeling of excitement returning to him. “I haven't been to the movies in a while.” 

Ben smiled. “Me neither. And now I'm going to have that weird, blobby thing in my mind all night.” He said coyly. “I’m going to nab Captain, just in case that thing tries to eat me.” He said, walking towards his room. 

George followed, smiling shyly. “I  _ told _ you. It's all cheesy until the lights go out. I can't have you spoiling those dogs.” Ben spied Captain stretching lazily, but decided not to drag him into this little conversation. He stopped just shy of his door, leaning against it casually. 

“I guess you're right. I’ll just have to brave it all by myself.” He said. A silence fell between them, George taking a step closer so that Ben’s back pressed flat against the door. 

“I...can't thank you enough for tonight. I had fun.” George said, whisper soft. Ben felt the air leave his lungs, his pulse spike as he struggled to find the right words.

“It was perfect.” He whispered, eyes falling to George's lips.  _ Almost  _ perfect. Save for one teeny tiny detail. One that George seemed to be picking up on. He bit his lip, taking one final step forward until...it happened. 

A gentle hand cupping his chin, soft lips pressing against his, and a warmth unfurling in his gut that made Ben’s knees turn to jelly. George  _ kissed _ him. Tenderly. Sweetly. Ben moaned as George's hands ran up into his hair, pulling him deeper into the kiss until their inevitable part. Ben blinked a few times, his head spinning, until his voice returned to him.

“ _ Wow.” _

George leaned forward again, brushing his nose feather light against Ben's, his breath in even puffs against his cheek. 

“ _ Wow.” _


	13. Chapter 13

Ben had been sent off to bed that night with little more than a kiss, but it felt like the world to him. His lips still tingled as he stripped down for bed, slipping on his cozy pjs. It wasn't his first kiss, not even his first kiss with George, but it was the first of  _ something. _ Something new and warm that swelled in his chest, causing him to smile into his pillow like an idiot. Even as he rose the next morning his cheeks ached, pinched to the point of breaking with fuzzy dreams about George and their kiss at the door.

Ben rose from bed still somewhat early. After weeks of a 4am alarm, 6am felt late and strange. The sun was just coming up, and he felt as though he missed a chunk of his day. George had woken up at his reliable old time, apparently unwilling to sleep in even on a holiday. Ben could hear him clanking around in the kitchen. He didn't waste time padding down to the kitchen, heart fluttering in his chest. 

George was up, yes, but still in his pjs as he looked over a recipe book on the counter. It wasn't often that Ben saw him before he was shaved and showered. The morning stubble, messy bed head, along with the slouchy pjs gave him a whole different feel. Wonderfully soft and cozy. George looked up from his book, taking notice of Ben lingering in the hall. 

“Just the man I need. Morning.” 

Ben smiled, rushing to meet him at the counter. To his delight, George leaned in for a kiss, his hand pressing firm against Ben’s lower back. Ben slinked his arms around George’s neck, making sure one kiss became two or three before George could pull away. “Morning.” Ben said, easing back off his tip toes. He glanced down at the cookbook, seeing a hand scribbled recipe for the large turkey sitting wrapped in the sink.

“Care to be my assistant today? I could use the help.” George said, his hand still sitting low on Ben’s back. The recipe looked simple. A spice rub, an assortment of veggies to roast in the gravy. No stuffing, but then again Ben never knew anyone to  _ eat  _ stuffing. It always just sat there untouched next to some jiggling bowl of cranberry sauce. Ben traced his finger down the list of spices.

“Hmm, I think I will help. And not just make mashed potatoes and fall asleep on the couch.” He said coyly. George smiled.

“That's what I was going to do.” 

It ended up being one of the more pleasant Thanksgivings Ben had ever had. The holiday hadn't been fun for years, not since he was nine and the world was a little warm and fuzzy. Back then it was a day he saw his cousins, ate until his belly swelled up, and then ran out to play with the neighborhood kids while the adults chewed the fat. As he got older, playtime thinned out. He found himself chained to the table with his aunts and uncles, listening to them spout their nonsense as he tried to swallow the bile rising in his throat. His very last Thanksgiving was only tolerable because Nate had just given him his number, and the two texted under the table about almost identically horrific dinners. 

He didn't know what to expect with George, but he knew it would never be like that. Never tense or vile. In fact it felt like a whole new holiday, where anything was possible. They spent their morning prepping the turkey, with George elbow deep cleaning out giblets and still thawing chunks of turkey juice. Ben sat by stirring spices into softened butter, before getting just as messy as he shoved the mixture under the skin, all with four little dogs nipping and whining for a lick of their prize.

“This is  _ raw _ , Cloe.” Ben said, using his foot to slide the her across the linoleum. “Not for dogs.” George rolled his eyes, having to slide Cloe away with his foot as well.

“I swear, she's the fattest pup. She’ll eat anything. I lost three pairs of shoes to her.” George mumbled, tying off a cluster of fresh herbs with a bit of string before stuffing it into the turkey. “ _ Nice shoes.” _ Cloe whined, still wanting to take a jab at the raw turkey on the counter. Ben chuckled softly, petting Cloe awkwardly with his foot. 

Once the turkey was dressed, George slid it into the oven and set the timer. “Good, and now that I'm covered in turkey juice, its shower time.” George said, heading towards his room. Ben leaned against the counter, wiping his hands off on a dish towel. From his spot he could hear the master bath shower squeak on, Captain pawing at the slightly ajar door of George’s bedroom. Ben smiled to himself, taking in the golden sunlight that now poured in through the trees, lighting up the yard. 

“Come on, guys. Outside time.” 

* * *

Dinner sat heavy on Ben’s stomach, the remaining plates of turkey and sides going cold on the counter. He had gotten in his fair share of teasing George over his muscle memory, watching as he almost reached for sugar instead of salt on multiple occasions, but was pleasantly surprised that neither of their meals ended up generously sweetened. By the time George placed out their slices of apple crumb pie, Ben was ready to split at the seams.

After George scooped up the remaining plates, the two settled in on the couch to play with the dogs and fight off the looming threat of sleep. Ben had flipped through the channels, neither of them too interested in football, but just enough to sit through a Charlie Brown Thanksgiving before their meal caught up to them. 

“C’mere.” George whispered, moving his arm around Ben, no doubt seeing his head tip forward with sleep. It only took a gentle nudge to guide Ben to his new resting spot, snug in the crook of George’s arm, with one cheek pressed hard on his chest. A throw blanket was carefully pulled across their laps, George working to wrap them both beneath it on the couch. A light lingering kiss was placed atop Ben’s head, and he could feel George smile against him. “I've always wanted to do this…” he said, so quiet Ben wasn't even sure if it was for him.

“Hm?” Ben could only manage the sound, his body melting the longer George held him. 

“To hold you just like this.” George said. His fingers reached up to brush Ben’s cheek. “Just like this.” Ben smiled, turning his head slightly to catch the pads of George’s fingers as they traced his face, kissing them sweetly. 

“So have I.” Ben said. “And more than that too.” He hid his face in George's chest, still a little too tender to fully jest about his drunken night faux paux. The thought made his cheeks sear, but Ben didn't doubt that George thought about it. He definitely must have before asking him out on that date last night. He wouldn't have kissed Ben without giving it proper thought. Still, Ben knew it would come up, and hopefully before Ben made some new embarrassing mistake. 

“I've been meaning to talk to you about that.” George said, his hand dropping to squeeze Ben’s shoulder. “That night, you told me you were, uh,”

“A virgin.” Ben interjected.

“Right. That.” George cleared his throat. “I want to take things a little slow. You're young still, and I...need a little time to warm up to it. Opening up like that to someone, that is.” Ben sat up, not wanting to have this conversation while mumbling into George's sweater. 

“Does my age make you uncomfortable?” He asked. What he really meant was,  _ do I remind you of Alex,  _ but that seemed wrong. George shook his head.

“You're an adult, Ben. A  _ young  _ one, but it's different than what happened with Alex.” Ben flushed, either he was really transparent, or George just knew him too well. “I've just been alone a long time. And you have  _ limited  _ experience. I don't want to throw you into bed, go through the motions, and take away those experimental firsts for you.” He paused, as if he just realized something.

“How far have you gotten, Ben?” 

Ben blushed. “Not very…” he mumbled. “I wasn't really dating anyone.” 

George nodded, his cheeks turning pink. “Are you comfortable telling me what you've done?” He brushed a stray lock away from Ben’s face, eyes kind and curious. Ben worried his lip between his teeth, and worked up the courage to tell George.

“I mean I'm  _ really _ new to this. My family was kind of...religious. My first kiss was in college. And one guy stroked me a little before I got too scared to continue. I didn't even finish, so…”  Ben diverted his gaze to the crevice of the couch, feeling a little foolish. If George wanted to go slow, they'd be crawling with how inexperienced Ben was. “You probably think I'm weird, right?”

George pulled Ben close, wrapping an arm around his waist. “No, no, not at all. I just want  _ you _ to learn what you like. And believe me, there's plenty to learn.” Ben laughed, a familiar heat pooling in his gut.  _ Plenty to learn? _ Yes,  _ please _ . The mere thought of George taking his sweet time with him, peeling away his clothes and showing him everything he had, was enough to make his pulse race. To be pinned by those strong arms, kissed silly, and ravished with attention...with him setting the pace on how far they could go...

Ben leaned forward for a kiss, catching George's lips in a way that made his breath hitch. He teased his tongue along George’s lower lip, finally slipping past it to deepen their kiss. He moaned as George’s hands slid up from his waist into his hair, grabbing a fistful to tug gently, guiding Ben to tip back and lay flat on the couch as George straddled him. 

“Can you show me something right now?” Ben panted. George smiled wickedly, accepting Ben’s challenge. Ben wiggled his hips. “Can you finish what that other guy couldn't?”

There was the delightful drag of fingertips down his stomach, teasing the thick waistband of Ben’s sweatpants, occasionally dropping to cup the bulge beginning to press against the fabric. George kissed Ben’s neck, rubbing him through the sweats until they rented nicely. “Of course…” he murmured, his hand finally pushing past the waistband, and wrapping around the base of his cock. 

Ben pressed his face into the cushions, and moaned.

* * *

Sackett’s office was located in the center of town, alongside a few private practices that lined a small side street. Ben could see the signs as they rolled past: dentist, chiropractor, ob/gyn, until finally George parked in an open space a few steps from a building with a small sign for Nathaniel Sackett’s clinic. 

Inside, Ben was greeted with the familiar smell of sterilized equipment, and the rows of chairs surrounding the little check in window. George greeted the nurse, chatting briefly before being handed two clipboards; one for him, one for Ben.

“Don't worry about the fee.” George whispered, not wanting to disturb the near silence of the waiting room. “Nathaniel and I have an arrangement. Just fill it out as best you can.” Ben took the clipboard and pen, checking off his medical history quietly. They wouldn't be waiting long, seeing as the room was empty, and they could hear  a muffled conversation between Sackett and a patient down the hall. George leaned over to him, chancing a quick peck on the cheek as the nurse’s head was turned.

“Thank you for doing this for me.” 

George had fumbled through the conversation a few days earlier, explaining that this was just a precaution. He didn't suspect Ben of lying, or think of him differently because he was homeless, he just needed to be sure. “You were born too late to have seen it, but I did.” He said. And Ben couldn't blame him. In fact he was relieved. And so George made the appointment for a routine STI screening for the two of them. 

Sackett came for George first, taking him into an examination room with a warm smile. From his spot in the waiting room, Ben could hear them laughing and catching up. He tried to half heartedly flip through the magazines, but found very little that caught his attention.

“You're George’s new baking assistant, right?” The nurse asked. Ben smiled, a little caught off guard. 

“Yeah. I came down from state.”

The nurse pulled up a picture on her phone, showing it to Ben. “You helped George make this cake for someone in my sister’s office. I got a piece! Very good.” She said, flipping through a few zoomed in shots of a cake they had baked a little while back. 

“Aw, thank you. I try.” Ben laughed, feeling the knot of tension in his stomach relax. The nurse put her phone away, the office phone now ringing.

“Be sure to get a flu shot if you haven't already, sweetie. I don't know what this town will do if you and George can't make goodies.” She chuckled, picking up the phone quickly. “Sackett Clinic, how may I help you?” 

Ben returned to his magazine, if only for a few minutes until the door clicked open and George emerged. His sleeve was still rolled up, sporting the cotton ball taped down under a bandage over his vein. Sackett motioned for Ben to follow, and he threw a little wink to George as the two swapped positions. 

The exam room was small, and Sackett had to turn sideways to get between the bench and the counter. Ben hopped onto the bench, crinkling the paper roll beneath him.

“It's good to get you in the office for once, Benjamin.” Sackett said, flipping through the chart. “Instead of balancing you on that horribly unstable scale in the guest bath.” 

“I'm lucky I didn't break my neck.” Ben laughed. 

Sackett set the chart down. “Well, I’m glad there too.” He rolled Ben’s sleeve up, a tray of needles and tubes already set out. Ben waited patiently as his arm was tied off, Sackett brushing his fingers roughly over the vein swelling in his arm. Ben could hear the ripping of an alcohol pad, and the cool contact of it against his skin. 

“Not to embarrass you, dear boy, but I haven't seen George this happy in a long time.” He said. Ben winced a bit as the needle went in, and he opted to look at Sackett instead of the tube growing ever hotter against his skin. “And I hope you don't think badly about his asking you to come in.”

“Not at all.” Ben said. “This feels good. Safe.” 

Sackett smiled, replacing the full vial with another. “I'm glad to hear. I see a lot of younger people come in and they're painfully unaware of these precautions. And George is from a different time.” He trailed off, something Ben also noticed happened a lot when George looked back at his adolescence. “Nonetheless, you're here. And if you’ll just leave the urine sample at the little lab by the bathroom you’ll be all set.”

Ben pressed the cotton swab to his arm, and took the sample cup handed to him. “And Benjamin…” Sackett said, placing a hand on his shoulder, a knowing smile on his face. “It's not all blood tests and long talks. Have fun, son.” Ben blushed, fumbling around with the doorknob as he thanked Sackett for his well wishes. 

After the deed was done, he met back up with George, who was pleasantly chatting up the nurse. Ben smiled, catching the nurse explain the type of cake she hoped to buy for her son’s birthday. George scribbled some of the details on a post it before handing the nurse his card. “This shouldn't be too much. Just let me know how big you want it once the guest list is final.” He said, looking over his note. The nurse smiled, and handed back the invoice of their visit.

“Excellent. You boys will hear from me soon.” 

* * *

The phone rang as Ben was washing pie filling off his hands. George sighed, picking it up wearily. “Hello? Oh, Nathaniel. Hi.” Ben dried his hands on his apron, turning to watch George as he talked to Sackett. The results wouldn't be bad, that he knew, but Ben watched as George smiled and winked at him as their results were confirmed. 

“That's excellent, thank you.” George said, his tired tone not missed by Sackett. Ben could hear him ask over the phone, muffled against George’s ear, how the business was going. “Oh, you know. Janet sent the cake specs over. She wants a big one.” There was laughter over the phone as Sackett began to describe how Nurse Janet’s party was becoming a bigger affair than she could handle.

“Good lord, well it's always hard when the in-laws  start inviting themselves over.” George said. “Martha’s used to drive her up the wall every Easter.” Ben smiled softly, leaning on the counter to admire George. He was slouched against the wall, so covered in flour and blueberry filling that the silvery hairs at his temples were met with patches of flour as he ran a hand through it absentmindedly. In the dying light of day, George was drenched in gold sunlight streaming through the thin gauzy curtains of the kitchen. It was a good look, one that Ben had fallen hard for. His George, working hard over sweets, soft and steady.

Ben pushed himself off the counter and walked to meet George, wrapping his arms around him for a hug. George smiled, continuing his conversation, but offering a hand on Ben’s lower back. “No, not yet. The dogs are all fixed, but Captain needs to be trained a little more before I can take him into town for real.” Ben kissed George's chest. “Yeah, Janet’s dog can get rough. Captain needs to learn how to play nicer first. But we’ll go if she wants.” 

It was cruel, really, for Ben to have such a wicked thought at that moment. George looked so good, smelled like warm sugar and faint aftershave… felt so nice beneath his fingers. Ben pressed another kiss into his chest, and then another, this time slightly lower. George raised an eyebrow, curious. 

Ben continued, slowly sinking to his knees as he kissed down George's soft middle, hands working to silently undo the belt and zipper of his pants.

George bit his lip, holding the phone away to swear under his breath as Sackett continued to go on about the party. “ _ Ben.”  _ He whispered. Ben looked up at him beneath his lashes, working his hand through George’s jeans to knead his cock, bringing it to attention. Once ready, he coaxed it out of the fly, stroking his length slowly. George leaned his head back against the wall as Ben took him into his mouth.

“ _ Oh--” _

Ben felt his cheeks burn as George bit down on his hand, still intent on listening to Sackett. He interjected their conversation with short hums, pausing to press the phone to his shirt and moan into his hand. Ben moaned around him softly, suckling as quietly as he could. George was thick, and it took careful work not to let Sackett hear the sloppy, needy sounds of him swallowing George down from over the phone.

“Nathaniel,” George said, trying to mask his wavering voice with exhaustion. “I'm going to call you back later. I can't keep my eyes open.” Ben pulled off his cock, screwing his face up with a mocking expression.

“ _ Liar”  _ he mouthed, twisting his fist over the head of his cock. George rolled his eyes, humming through the last few pleasantries of his conversation before hanging the phone up hastily. Ben let out a high whine as George's hand found his hair, tugging it firmly.

“Dirty boy” he growled. Ben hummed, dragging the head of George's cock over his bottom lip, flicking his tongue across the slit.

“You were taking too long.” He said, taking George back into his mouth. George's hips bucked, his grip loosening as Ben sucked. 

“Not much longer…” he warned. “Not if you look like that.” Ben hollowed his cheeks, bobbing his head as he urged George along. He wasn't certain anything he was doing was right. It felt sloppy and wet, the front of George’s jeans damp with spit as he slid his cock as far back as his throat allowed. But George wasn't complaining. His head was leaned back against the kitchen wall, eyes screwed shut as his hips nudged forward. He wanted to thrust, Ben could tell, but restrained himself to let Ben take the lead. After all, this was his first blow job, and George was adamant about Ben setting the pace...no matter how slow. 

“Ben, I’m  _ close _ .” He sighed, his hand dropping to cradle the back of Ben’s head. “Pull off.” Ben pulled off, watching as George curled his fist around the head of his cock. He pumped a few more times, until Ben could see his body shake through its orgasm, and his release leak through his fingers. Ben sat back on his heels, content to watch George catch his breath against the wall.

“You couldn't let me finish that call first?”

Ben smiled, “Not when you look like that.”

* * *

December 27th couldn't have come soon enough. Between regular rounds, office parties, and Christmas orders, Ben and George hadn't had a day off in weeks. They worked right through Christmas, only squeezing in enough time for a little make out session on the couch, and a hasty blow job in the truck as their celebration. But unlike the past few years, George had alerted his main businesses that he’d be closing up shop for a four day vacation. A well deserved rest from their endless hours hunched over pies and rolling out dough. Ben was certain his fingers would permanently smell like vanilla extract, which is a lot less warm and pleasant than you would expect. 

Their postponed Christmas came to fruition on the 27th, with Ben sitting cross legged on the floor with the dogs as Mopsey sniffed at a wrapped ball they had picked out for him. It took Captain all of five seconds to rip through his gift, finding a thick rope toy he could barely pull around the house. Cloe got treats, and Tipsy a new squeak toy--one that had to be taken away within the first five minutes of playing with it. 

Ben reached under the couch, having hidden George’s gift there the night before. “It's not much, but I think you’ll like it.” He said, hopping up onto the couch. George held the flat box in his hands, a soft smile on his face.

“You didn't have to, Ben…”

“Just open it.” 

Ben loved that George was a careful unwrapper. He picked at the sides of the gift, undoing the red and green paper with care. Beneath it was the label from a culinary store in town, and George’s breath hitched.

“This isn't--”

“ _ Maybe, _ just open it.” Ben smiled, watching as George lifted the lid of the box to reveal a new apron. It was a soft blue, pressed neatly into the tissue paper, with big deep pockets and room for tools. George let out a laugh as he held it up, unfolding it to get a better look.

“Ben it's  _ perfect. _ ” He said, leaning over for a kiss. “And I got you something too.” The package was small, and Ben tore it open hastily to find a novel he had mentioned a while back, along with a new journal. 

“I love it.” Ben said, returning the thank-you kiss. “Although I wish I gave you yours before breakfast so I could see you wear it.” George chuckled, placing the lid back on the box.

“That just makes it more exciting.” He said. “This is the kind of thing you mentally dry hump to as a culinary student.” Ben bit his lip, trying not to think of how well George would look trying out his new gift. His expression garnered some attention. “What's that look about?”

Ben shrugged, pressing his lips into a coy smile. “ _ Nothing.  _ Maybe how good you’d look in that apron.” George slid over on the couch, cornering Ben by the arm rest. “Maybe how good you’d look in  _ just _ that apron.” George smiled against his neck, working to suck a bruise over his skin.

“I don't think you could handle me in just an apron.” He said, pausing to kiss down along Ben’s collar. Ben huffed.

“Really?”

George hummed, his hands gripping Ben’s hips tightly. “Really. I can make you come fully clothed.” Ben shifted down, letting George climb on top of him on the couch, before flashing a wicked grin. 

“I'd like to see you try.” 

Up until now, Ben had set the pace for their intimate experiences; but as George rolled his hips, crushing against Ben, he realized that this was George’s turn. His time to set the pace. Determine when Ben gets to come, and show him just how well he can take care of him.

The first few motions were deliciously slow, with George dragging his hips up against Ben. Ben moaned, feeling George’s length pressed against his, relishing in how the fabric of his pajamas rubbed against the sensitive head of his cock.

“ _ George” _

George groaned, shifting his weight so that he could pull Ben’s hips up, grinding him against his cock. Ben bucked beneath him. His skin felt like it was melting, and he cursed at how many layers stood between him and George. It was so hot and stifling, so very tempting to rip off his own clothes and have George fuck him properly, but George had promised to make him come. And he really,  _ really  _ wanted to. 

“Look at you” George murmured against his ear. “Just a little friction and you're all red. God, how good are you going to look on my cock?” Ben whimpered, writhing up against George as he nipped his earlobe. “How good?”

“ _ So good.” _ Ben panted, rewarded with an uptick in the pace of George’s grinding. He spread his legs, moaning as George rubbed against him.

“That's right, just like that.” George breathed, pinning Ben’s hips down to the cushions. “Make a mess in those tight little boxers.” Ben moaned louder, the thought of coming all over himself making his gut clench with heat. It was too much. He craved George's weight on top of him, and the ever mounting pressure in his gut as he rolled himself against George. His cheeks burned and his shirt clung to his chest, mind numbingly blank save for the few embarrassing words that managed to slip past his lips as George worked him over.

“ _ Oh daddy--” _

Whatever icy mortification seeped into his mind was quickly forgotten as George’s hand moved to press Ben hard against his hips. Hard against the cock straining through George’s jeans. George bucked against him, this time a little more wildly as he groaned into the crook of Ben’s neck.

“That's right, come for daddy.” He growled, his breath hot against the underside of Ben’s jaw, adding to the stifling sweat beneath his clothes as George moved harder and faster across him, until sparks flew behind his eyes and a telltale cry fell from his lips. 

George moved off, slowly kissing his way down to where Ben’s shirt had rode up. He nosed  around the waistband, panting heavily before hooking two fingers and pulling the pajamas down, revealing Ben’s light gray boxers with a damp, dark stain.

“Beautiful.” George marveled, peeling the boxers down slowly so that Ben could see the mess he made. His face flushed at the sight of his still twitching cock, slick with sweat and release as it rested free against his hip. “Gorgeous boy.” 

George wet his lips, giving Ben’s hips a reassuring squeeze as he dipped his head low to lap at the mess. “Let's see if you taste as good as you look.”

* * *

 

That was the furthest they got, though Ben didn't mind. One hot night grinding on the couch, stretched out between days of hand jobs and blow jobs, felt right. It was warm and safe. Something Ben hadn't felt in a long time. 

The year ended, though it practically melted into the intense routine he and George maintained. There was a bottle of champagne, some strawberries, and a night on his knees as George rang in the new year. That too passed, and Ben looked out at the year ahead like a long and winding road full of firsts. Full of things he and George had yet to do. First picnic, first trip with the dogs. They had talked about going to the lake. It pricked excitement under Ben’s skin. 

They still had a cold winter left to endure, and mostly that meant pizza night. Rolling power outages in the neighboring town cancelled their movie night, forcing them to order pizza once again. It wasn't all bad, as they passed the time eagerly kissing on the couch, shoving their hands under each other’s shirts as they tangled up in one another.

George had only just pinned Ben to the couch when the doorbell rang. “Pizza, George.” Ben said, trying to wriggle out from under him. George growled, and held fast to kiss at Ben’s neck. Ben moaned, but another impatient ring of the bell stopped him. 

“George,  _ pizza _ .” He laughed, finally pushing George off as the bell rang for a third time. George sighed, straightening himself out.

“I’ll grab the door, get the money on the counter.” George said, heading to catch the delivery driver before he bolted. Ben scrubbed his lips dry, tugging his hoodie up over the bruise he knew would form on his neck as he grabbed the cash off the kitchen counter. He heard the door click open, but didn't smell the pizza.

“George?” Ben called. He crossed the living room quickly, wondering if he had to chase the driver. But George was at the door, holding it open so that the cold night air seeped in. Ben nudged to George’s side, looking out at the person standing on their porch. He was slender, but not very tall, with a fair boned face and thick hair Ben recognized immediately.

“ _ Alex?”  _ He whispered.

Alex turned his glassy, tear filled eyes to Ben, and he could see them fill with rage.

“Who the fuck are you?” 


	14. Chapter 14

Alex sat across the table with his arms crossed. The past few minutes had been a blur, with George stepping aside to let Alex through, and Ben nearly diving out of the way to avoid being shouldered. The three went to the kitchen, George falling numbly into his usual seat, and Alex quickly taking the opposite chair, which left Ben to pull up a wobbly wooden stool. A third wheel to this little reunion. 

Captain whined, feeling the tense atmosphere between the adults around the table. Ben turned his attention to the pup, picking him up into his lap to avoid the glare being burnt into him by a man thought dead. 

“You have a dog now.” Alex said, looking Captain over. George folded his hands on the table top. 

“I have four.” He said softly. Alex kept his eyes on Ben, a stare that was becoming harder and harder for Ben to stomach by the second.

“Don't you mean five?” 

“ _ Alexander!” _ George had found his voice, and the sound of it made Ben jump out of his skin. It was rough and angry...hurt...justifiably so. Alex quieted, crossing his arms tighter. There were tears in his eyes. George exhaled slowly, and began.

“You do know this means you tell me everything. Every moment since you left, until the moment your feet returned to that doorstep.” He said, his voice wavering. “And you tell me why this wasn't worth a damn phone call in over  _ six years.” _

Alex scrubbed at his face, huffing loudly. “I’ll tell you, but does  _ he _ need to be here. I don't know him.” George sighed.

“Alex,  _ Ben is my partner. _ This is as much his business as it is ours.” Alex looked visibly wounded by that, but swallowed it down. Ben shifted on the rickety stool, Captain squirming in his arms curiously. 

“Alright. Fine. I...I don't know where to start.”

“Why you left.”

Alex frowned. “I...can't explain that one right now. Can I answer later?” George nodded, but his hands twitched nervously. He took a deep breath and asked again. 

“Then how about how you disappeared? And where you went?”

Ben watched as Alex nervously tore at his cuticles. “I, uh, packed a bag which I laid out in the woods. After the party, I walked from Main Street to the hiding spot to pick up my things. I didn't go past my foster home. And once I did that, I walked a few towns over.”

George rubbed his temples. “On the trail, at night?” He asked, his voice getting more upset. Alex scoffed.

“No! I walked along the highway. What kind of  _ jackass _ takes only a backpack out on that trail?!” Ben bit his lip, and pet Captain a little more intently. George’s stern face and silence prodded Alex to continue. “I just walked far enough to hitchhike. Then I grabbed a bus once I was a few towns over.” 

“A bus to where?”

Alex dropped his gaze to his hands. “New York City. For college.” Ben flinched as George slammed his fist on the table, tears in his eyes. Captain yelped, causing the other dogs to wake up from their slumber. Ben quietly set the pup down and shushed the others. George’s knuckles were white. 

“ _ Alexan---” _

_ “ _ Before you lay into me again, George-- Jesus Christ--- gimme a minute?” It took another minute before Alex could speak. “I'm not  _ stupid _ , George. I saw the letter from the bank. You applied for a second mortgage on the house. I couldn't...I could  _ never _ live with that over my head. I’d rather struggle on my own than know I was living easy at your expense.”

“You left in June. School didn't start until August. So what exactly did you expect to happen, Alex? How did you even survive up there?” George asked.

Alex shrugged. “It wasn't easy at first. I stayed at some shelters for a bit. Spent my  cash savings on a 24hr gym membership so I could shower and look presentable. Some dude hired me to work in his bar. I mostly poured beers, and it was off the books until I was able to scrape enough for a savings account. The rest was stashed in my locker at the gym. It was enough until school was about to start.” 

George stared Alex down, not quite believing his story. “I checked Columbia’s alumni lists. I never saw your name.” He said. Alex nodded.

“If you looked for Alexander  _ Hamilton _ , then no. But I graduated as Alexander  _ Laurens.” _ George quirked an eyebrow. “One of the guys at the bar. John. Lots of money, was a good friend to me. We both were going to Columbia. I told him my foster family was abusive and I didn't want them finding me. He offered to help change my name to Laurens. His dad was a big donor and knows some people in admissions, and they made sure I still got in on a full ride.” 

“ _ Lucky you.”  _ George huffed. The doorbell rang, and all three stalled for a moment before realizing that this was probably the pizza man. Ben excused himself, the money still in his pocket from before. He accepted the pizza quickly, taking the warm box on his arm. A half hour ago the smell would have made his mouth water. Right now it just made him feel sick. 

George and Alex were still sitting silently, almost as if they were afraid to speak in the vague presence of the delivery man. Ben set the pizza on the counter, turning to the both of them.

“Hungry?”

Alex nodded, and George thanked Ben quietly as he set down some plates. Ben could see his hands tremble as he set down a chilled bottle of water next to George. They didn't speak much as they ate, only offering a few words to ask for a napkin, or to pass seconds over. Ben tried to focus on something,  _ anything _ , to fill the silence, eventually settling on the dull hum of the refrigerator. It whined beneath the sound of chewing and the tap tap of oil hitting their plates, but it wasn't enough. 

The pressure was mounting in his gut, the urge to scream or cry, or make a scene to help noise return to the world and clear his mind from all these thoughts. Alex had  _ come home.  _ Once dead and now risen, and sitting in  _ his _ seat. A seat he  _ borrowed  _ because this boy was a phantom in George's life. And soon Alex will retire to  _ his _ room, where Ben will be made a guest in the bed George set him down on that cold night months ago. And tomorrow it wouldn't have mattered if he ran away from George all those weeks ago, or that he stayed. Alex was home. The anger would pass. Ben would be...just an afterthought. 

George cleared the plates. It was obvious that he was working up the nerve to continue, Ben could tell from the way his mouth twitched as if he were trying to spit the words out. Apparently, so did Alex.

“Just say it, George.” 

“Why did you come back  _ now. _ Why not earlier after you settled into college, without my help?” George asked. Alex wiped pizza grease off his hands, his napkin almost shredded to bits.

“Things got  _ complicated.  _ I was always working or studying. Doing internships over breaks. Meeting people...meeting  _ someone. _ ” Ben felt a stone drop in his stomach as George turned around.

“What?”

Alex swallowed. “I met a girl. Eliza. We got married three years ago, and we have a two year old son...Philip.” Ben was taken aback. Alex runs away, still manages to work and attend school, and gets married and has a kid...in six years. The amount he got done in  _ two weeks _ puts Ben’s stint in the woods to shame. George looked hurt.

“I see now.” He sighed, disbelief in his voice. “Let me guess, they love you unconditionally and it scares you. And so you've hopped on a bus to come back here, where you can pretend you're seventeen and bake for a few weeks while your wife and kid worry where the  _ fuck _ you ran off to.”

Alex crossed his arms. “First of all, I  _ drove.  _ Secondly, you don't know what it's like--”

“Don't I?! Let me fill you in on something, Alexander.” George said, his voice rising to fill the kitchen. Ben flinched. “ _ I never stopped looking for you _ . And this town, these people you left behind, they looked to  _ me _ for blame.” 

Alex straightened up in his seat. “What are you talking about?”

George wiped a tear away from his eye. “I was arrested, Alex. They accused me of...touching you, of  _ killing  _ you. The whole town has me pegged as some crazed pedophile who snatches up teenagers. I was banned from the youth program. I lost several of my contracts. I…” Ben placed his hand on top of George's, feeling it tremble. 

“I've been here  _ alone,  _ Alex.”

Alex’s eyes were red and glossy, big fat tears threatening to spill over his cheeks. “What about the dogs...or Ben?”

“The dogs are seven months old. Ben has been here a little over three months.” George croaked. “Before that it was just me.” 

Ben gripped his hand a little tighter as George let a few tears slip past his guard. “George, I.. I'm sorry. I didn't know.” Alex whispered.

George dried his cheeks on the sleeve of his sweater. “No. You didn't bother to.” He said. He rose from the table, taking a few deep breaths to compose himself. “I'm done with this for tonight. We can talk more in the morning, after deliveries.”

Alex nodded, and the hum of the refrigerator returned full force. 

* * *

A fold out cot had been pulled into Ben’s room, and Alex had taken a small bag out of his car. He tossed it onto the cot just as Ben returned from his shower. 

“I'm not going to run off into the night, George.” Alex said, sitting on the thin mattress.“I don't need to sleep with a chaperone.” George stood in the corner, his arms crossed. He looked over the set up quickly, watching as Ben slipped into bed.

“Just get some sleep, Alex. We’ll talk again in the morning. Think wisely about what you have to say.” He said. To Ben’s surprise, George stopped by his bed, pecking him on the cheek and murmuring a soft goodnight as Alex watched on. He then walked to the door, and flicked off the light. 

Silence and moonlight. God, Ben wished there were crickets. 

“So…” Alex said, breaking the quiet. “You’re George's partner.” He shrugged off his shirt and jeans to get under the thick quilt George placed on the cot. Ben lay down, gripping his pillow tightly. 

“Yeah, I am.” He didn't really feel like talking to Alex. The guy pissed him off. If the  _ fuck you _ at the door wasn't a good enough reason to detest him, than the outright disregard for George's suffering did the trick. 

Alex propped himself up on his elbow. “Only here three months. You new to town? Your folks beat you or something and you came to George?” 

Ben grit his teeth. “Homeless.” Alex nodded, taking a look around the room. There hadn't been much of a change, Ben assumed, since George had preserved the place. Only a few new knick knacks were Ben’s, taken from dates and long nights at home doodling. Still, it would be enough to set Alex off. This was  _ his _ room. And Ben was sleeping in  _ his  _ bed. Ben could feel Alex’s stare stop on him, studying him. 

“You have a last name or do people just call you  _ homeless Ben--” _

“ _ Brewster.  _ Jesus, what are you, a cop?” Ben hissed.

“Lawyer.” Alex clipped. Ben rolled his eyes, turned over, and tried to sleep. It only took a few more minutes before Alex spoke again. 

“You fuck him?” 

Ben sat up in the bed, jaw clenched. “The fuck is your problem?” He said. “How is that your business?” Alex shrugged.

“I'll take that as a ‘No’. I figured from the separate rooms. You religious? Waiting til marriage?”

“Fuck off.”

“Virgin? Afraid it’ll hurt?”

Ben threw his pillow at Alex, hitting him square in the face with a dull thud. He rolled out of bed, storming towards the door. “You want your fucking room, here it is. I'm sleeping on the couch.” Alex hopped off his thin cot and into the big comfy bed, pulling the blankets to his chin. He took out his phone, its pale blue light filling the room. 

“Suit yourself. Thanks for keeping it warm. Night.”

Ben closed the door quietly, no need to wake George by slamming it. He groped down the dark hallway towards the living room, finally finding his way to the couch. With a spare blanket and some pillows it could be warm enough. Ben turned to retrieve them, but was caught off guard by the high pitched shriek of a squeaky toy. He cursed himself for stepping on it so loudly. There were footsteps, and a light flicked on.

“Benjamin?”

George stood by the light switch, his hair ruffled and robe hastily pulled on. He probably thought it was Alex trying to leave. Ben shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “George, I'm just gonna sleep out here. Alex is...still angry.” He mumbled. 

George sighed. “Don't sleep here, Ben. It's drafty, you’ll get sick. Come sleep with me.” Ben smiled softly. He hadn't slept in George's bed before. Part of taking things slow meant the two of them refrained from dozing off together anyplace but the couch. The beds were soft, and had plenty of room for other activities. This might only be an offer to sleep, but it was the little reaffirmation Ben needed right now.

Ben crawled into the unrumpled side of the bed, cozying up to George as he rolled back onto his side. A slow kiss was pressed against his lips, and a hand slinked around his waist. “I'm sorry he forced you out, Ben.” George said, stealing another kiss. Ben leaned into George, wrapping his arms around him.

“ S’ok. I can only imagine what this must be like for you.” He whispered. George hummed, his fingers tracing shapes into the skin exposed under his rolled up tshirt. 

“Actually, it's the happiest I've been in a long time.” He said. Ben felt his stomach pitch, and George quickly explained. “Aside from  _ us _ , Ben. I've spent six years holding out hope that Alex was ok. I'm pissed as hell he never called, or had the decency to do a quick google search and see what happened back here. But that was just  _ Alex.  _ It's who is he. He's afraid to look back.” Tears were welling in George's eyes. 

“And now, I’m  _ free _ . God, even if he doesn't go into town and show everyone he's alive,  _ I’ll know. _ I know he's safe. Even better, he has a wife and family. Something that seemed impossible for him, honestly. Home life? Stability? To some extent he's stopped running.” 

Ben hugged George tight, “I'm glad.” He mumbled into his chest. “You got him back.” It came out sadder than he had wanted, and George tipped his chin up to see him more clearly. 

“Hey, this doesn't change anything.” He said. Ben squirmed, uncomfortable with how obviously Alex’s return affected him. Ben lowered his gaze. George sighed. “ _ Ben.  _ It really doesn't. I know I've been taking this slow, and that you've been wanting  _ more _ from this than just a quick hand job or--”

“George, I'm not rushing--”

“ _ I know. _ I know. What I'm trying to say is...I don't need to wait anymore. This was a closure I didn't know I needed. And now it's just us. I can really,  _ really  _ move on.” George whispered. He traced the curve of Ben’s cheek, almost as if entranced by it. “Just us, Ben.” 

Ben felt heat pricking under his skin. Just them. Like before, only a little different. There wouldn't be a phantom hanging over them, or the deep seated shame George brought back with him each time he returned from town. They'd bake together. Eat together.  _ Sleep _ together. George’s hand wound it's way into his hair, fingers tangling in the locks as his lips hovered just above Ben’s.

“Just us.” Ben breathed. He leaned forward, kissing George softly, slowly. And then again. And again, until he could feel the heat unfurling in his gut melt him. George's tongue pressed against his lips, swiping for a taste. Everything felt slow and mind numbing, limbs a little too tangled for either to know what went where, but George was on top of him. George's hands were skimming up under his shirt, thumbs rubbing over the bud of his nipples. 

Ben moaned, legs shifting wider apart as George broke their kiss to remove his shirt. Ben had seen George mostly naked, with his fly down or his boxers around his knees, but never properly naked. He took his time drinking in the sight of George, broad chest bare and lit by silvery moonlight. The way his eyes were drawn down the line of his torso, down past the trickle of hair from his navel that disappeared into his boxers. George teased the outline of a bulge, rubbing himself through the fabric.

“Are you sure you want this?” He asked. Ben kicked his lips, his mouth dry. God yes he wanted this. He's wanted this forever. For George to peel off all his layers and just pin him to the bed. Make him sweat and writhe and forget himself. Ben nodded, his voice escaping him. George breathed in, perhaps summoning up a little courage of his own, before peeling down his boxers. 

Something hot and wonderful radiated at the base of Ben’s spine. George's cock hung thick and heavy, and twitched as Ben looked him over. “Are you going to..um..” Ben stammered, feeling just a little intimidated by the prospect of taking him. George smiled, and dipped down to place a reassuring kiss on Ben’s cheek.

“Not tonight. We still have some other things to try.” He purred. “But I promise it’ll feel good.” His hands moved to pull at the hem of Ben’s shirt, and he let the garment be pulled up and over his head. Next came his bottoms, George tucking his fingers under the pajama pants and boxers to pull them down. Ben watched as his cock sprung free, George wasting no time in wrapping his first around it. 

It was slow at first, George stroking him base to head, taking care to thumb at the sensitive head of his cock until it beaded up. He kissed a line down Ben’s neck, pausing to nip and suck at the skin until it turned purplish in the moonlight. Ben pushed up into George’s hand, breath hitching as George pumped faster. It was good, different. Their skin stuck where it met, bodies already beginning to sweat as they moved together. Every shift George made resulted in the slow sweaty peel of skin of skin, leaving Ben chilly and wanting until the heat returned like a brand, with George’s lips searing a new patch of him. It almost killed him when George released his cock and pulled off.

“Spread your legs” he said. Ben did so, shimmying his hips forward as George nestled between them. He watched with rapt curiosity as George dipped his head low, and felt his cheeks being spread. There was the press of a hot slick tongue at his hole.

“ _ Oh” _

George licked slowly, tracing around him, pausing to kiss his thighs in a way that made Ben turn scarlet. Ben’s toes curled, gripping the sheets pitifully beneath them as George rimmed him. Quick, then slow, then quick, probing and tasting him with care. Ben bucked as he felt George's tongue flick fast over him, his cock twitching in sympathy. God he needed contact. He needed George to taste him, then reach up and stroke him. He couldn't do it himself. His palms were clammy and his grip trembling and weak. But George's hands were busy pulling him apart, opening him up for a better look. Ben moaned, almost a little too loudly.

He clamped his hand over his mouth, not wanting to wake Alex with his moans. He didn't even remember if they locked the door. Although the thought of Alex walking in, seeing George lick him open, seeing that this is  _ their _ life...well that did things to him too. Ben removed his hand, opting to moan into the pillow. 

“ _ Oh God, George” _

George lifted himself from his work, kissing and smiling against the soft skin of Ben’s inner thigh. “Feels good?” Ben nodded breathlessly. George chuckled at the sight of Ben’s cock, twitching and jumping against his stomach, leaking. “Let's see if we can get you to finish.” 

His tongue returned, and Ben saw stars. George gripped him tight, and Ben felt like he was on some delightful display. Laid out and writhing for George. Letting him taste at his leisure. Twisting in the sheets as he was kissed and licked and sucked. That heat in his gut coiled tightly, the pressure mounting as he pushed himself into George's tongue. 

“ _ More”  _

George moaned, pressing his tongue hot and flat against him, teasing him. He then moved, abandoning his hole to lick a long swipe from the base of Ben’s cock, to the flushed sensitive head leaking against his stomach. Ben whimpered. “It's too much, I’m... _ oh _ ” George's hand returned to his cock, stroking him through his release until his stomach was smattered, and he was softening in George's fist.

“Beautiful.” George breathed, kissing Ben’s hip. “But not done yet.” He took two fingers and dragged them through the mess, tracing down to Ben’s thighs. With a little tap he urged them together, smearing the crease with come until slick. 

“Keep them just like that.” George said. Ben kept his legs pressed tight as George pushed the head of his cock through the crease. He groaned deeply, shifting on top of Ben until he was in position. “ _ Fuck.  _ Just like that.” He panted, rolling his hips. Ben watched in awe as George thrust, spreading his legs wider to fuck deeper, harder. The sight alone was enough to tempt his own lifeless cock back to life, if only to a slightly half hard state. George was lost in it, his face buried into the crook of Ben’s neck, muttering dirty thoughts as he bit and sucked at the skin. Ben moaned loudly, gripping George's hips to guide him. Faster, faster, until Ben could swear he could hear the faint sound of the box spring under George's rumbling. And then came the groan, and the feeling of hot new release between his thighs. 

George rolled off, kissing Ben gently as the two caught their breath. “I, uh…” Ben panted. “I liked that.” George laughed, hiding his face in the pillow. 

“Me too.” 

As good as it was, the silence returned, and the heat began to grow cold. George picked himself up off the bed, opening the door to the master bath. “Before we pass out, let's clean up. Need help?” Ben wiggled his toes, trying to will his body to move.

“A little.” Ben laughed. George picked him up off the bed, helping him to the bathroom. He set Ben down on the edge of the tub, reaching over to fiddle with the knobs until the shower sputtered on. Ben leaned his head against the tiles, slumped to the side of the tub. It was cool to the touch, easing the searing heat in his cheeks. His body felt heavy, throbbing with the dull ache of bruises. But, overall, it was blissful. 

The bathroom began to steam up, and George picked up Ben once more. “We’ll sit for now.” He murmured against Ben’s ear. Ben hummed, blissed out of his mind as he was guided under the spray. He was rested between George's legs, head against his back so that George could scrub him down. Ben let his eyes drift close as a washcloth was passed over his stomach and thighs, washing away the sticky mess. It was too tempting to doze off as George massaged his scalp, the bubbly shampoo dripping down his arms and filling the bathroom with the scent of strawberry. 

Once he was clean, and George had scrubbed himself down, he was lifted from the tub once more. Fluffy towels, warm bathroom rug, Ben blinked in and out as George dried off and left out some clean clothes for Ben as he slipped away to change the sheets. Ben left the bathroom door open, not afraid if George saw him towel off and slip into his new pjs. The sound of George's feet against the hardwood made Ben weak. It was everything to him right now. And soon the footsteps came close to scoop him off of the fuzzy toilet lid he sat on, and carry him off to a bed that felt impossibly soft. 

George slipped into bed, the mattress sagging as he rolled towards Ben. His damp hair was pushed out of his eyes, and George placed a kiss on his forehead. “Goodnight, Ben.” And Ben placed a short kiss back, sinking down to curl against George's chest as he murmured a soft  _ goodnight.  _ From here he could hear George's heartbeat, slow and sure, and rock with the rise and fall of his chest. It was safe and warm. A good place. A home. And Ben realized...maybe he was too young to die. 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: This chapter gets really heavy. Content warnings for talk of suicide, acts of trichotillomania (compulsively pulling your hair out), and homophobia.

Ben had pulled himself out of bed reluctantly, prompted to move only by the rumbling in his stomach, and the smell of bacon wafting from the kitchen. George was gone, the door slightly ajar to let in the smell of breakfast on the table. Footsteps padded down the hall, and Ben propped himself up in bed, his joints popping.

“Hey George, I --oh.” The door opened, Alex’s hand on the knob. He glanced at Ben curled in the bed briefly before surveying the room. “Where's George? He left breakfast on the table.” Ben tried not to savor the hurt look on Alex’s face at the sight of him all wrapped up in George's sheets. Ben yawned and smoothed his hair back.

“Dunno. Check the yard. He usually takes the dogs out to pee.” He said, his voice rough with sleep. Alex mumbled a thanks, closing the door abruptly. Not wanting to waste anytime laying on an empty stomach, Ben rolled off the bed and made his way across the house to his room. The kitchen door was open, and Alex was waving George down from the back steps. A

Good few minutes and they'd sit to eat. It was enough time to pull on fresh clothes, and meet them at the table. 

The screen door slammed shut, and the sparse conversation between George and Alex could be heard as Ben re entered the kitchen. “I still can't tell them apart, I’m sorry.” Alex said, eying the dogs yipping at George's heels. “I don't know how you do it.” George smiled, scooping Cloe up to rub the round swell of her belly.

“It's not so hard once you know them. Mopsey and Tipsy were hardest to tell apart at first. Not so much anymore.” Cloe wiggled in George's arms, licking the air as her tummy was rubbed just right. Alex smiled, a little.

“Were you drunk when you named them, by any chance? Was Fido too cliché for you?” He teased. George rolled his eyes, setting Cloe back onto the tile, where she rolled onto her side lazily. 

“ _ Captain  _ isn't good enough?” He retorted, the runty little dog rushing over at the sound of his name. “See? They all know their names. Easy to tell them apart.” 

Ben pushed his chair up to the table, happy to see that George had fished out a folding chair from the garage so that no one would be subjected to the wobbly stool. It was charming when it was George perched upon it, phone pinned between his ear and his shoulder, rocking back and forth while he gossiped on the line with Sackett like an old grandmother. But when it meant that one of them would be teetering over breakfast, exchanging terse words as they tried to minimize the loud clacking it made with every shift of weight, it became much less endearing. 

“Start eating before it gets cold.” George said, hanging up the leashes. Alex sat opposite of Ben, leaving the empty chair between them for George to pull up. The eggs had gone slightly cold, but nobody complained as they cleared their plate. George made a little small talk, outlining his day. What new bakeries were in town. Who was throwing a party he needed catered. Ben nodded along, occasionally throwing in a word or two about marking it on the calendar. Alex remained silent.

“Which brings me to the next thing. I need to go pick up a new crate of apples from Sally.” Alex huffed.

“She still own that awful orchard.”

Ben suppressed the urge to smile. Seems some things are universal. George shrugged. “She's got lots of land. Don't see why she would leave.” Alex pushed his pancakes around on his plate, watching the syrupy trails it left in its wake.

“Still. She's unpleasant.”

“Moreso since you left. In fact, it's be nice to go back to the way she used to be.” George sighed. Ben shifted uncomfortably. Last night had been tense, the thought of continuing where they left off left a bad taste in his mouth. His stomach churned, and suddenly pancakes were too heavy for him. 

Alex fiddled with his fork. “Sorry. You want me to go down there or something? Set the bitch straight?” He asked. Ben rolled his eyes. Going into town and clearing this up was the  _ least _ Alex could do, all things considered. In the trips Ben had made with George to Sally’s since that regretful first meeting, she had always looked down on George with contempt, and then to him with some wide eyed concern he knew wasn't genuine. Some days he wanted to gouge her eyes out with the little spoon she served samples in, but he settled for snidely dismissing her apple butter. 

“If you'd like, Alex, sure.” George said. Alex looked up from his food, a flash of anger in his eyes.

“So is that a ‘yes’, or…?” 

“I can't force you to get in the truck and drive around town with me, Alex. You're a grown man. If you want to clear this up, great. If not, fine. I'll still sleep easy just knowing you're alive and well.”

Ben felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, Alex burning holes through his plate with his stare. “Didn't sound like you slept so easy last night.” He mumbled. George pretended not to hear it, but got up to pour himself more coffee. 

“More coffee, Ben?” 

Ben nodded, passing his cup over. “Yeah.” He said, “You know how I take it.” Alex scoffed, and Ben set down his fork with a bang.

“Why don't you just say it, Alex? Save us the time.”

Alex laughed. “Yeah, ok. One, stop fucking so loud. You threw a little hissy fit last night in the room because I was  _ too loud,  _ only to go across the house and raise hell. Real nice.” 

George whirled around. “ _ Alexander--” _

“What? Were you not aware of the god awful sounds you two were making.” George scowled, and Alex raised his hands up in mock sympathy. “I know,  _ I know.  _ He's your partner. But goddamn, George, I thought a cat was in heat--”

“That is  _ enough.  _ Alex, please. I didn't push you too much last night about why you left, but we both know there was a clear incident you're still sore over. Do  _ not  _ take this out on Ben.” George said. Anger was building up in his voice. Ben’s cheeks burned uncontrollably.

Alex threw his hands up. “Right to this then! Ok, let’s air it out. We kissed, you turned me down, and I was humiliated. So I bolted. I didn't need your money, and I didn't need your pity. But  _ Jesus,  _ George,  _ him? _ He looks 19!”

“20.” Ben spat coldly. Alex waved off Ben’s comment, disgusted.

“You turned me down because I was young, I get that. What I don't get is that you turn around and  _ fuck _ someone even younger.” He cried. George lunged forward, slamming his hand down on the table. Ben fumbled to save a glass of orange juice from tipping over. 

“I turned you down because you were a  _ child, _ and I was a fucking  _ adult. _ Alex, I knew you since you were 17. I was your mentor. That's all it should ever be.” He then pointed to Ben. “ _ Ben, _ is an adult. A young one, yes, but not someone who I was entrusted to  _ teach. _ Not someone who clearly needed one adult who wasn't trying to get something from them. Or did you want that? Did you want to prove I was just like every other adult you've met?”

Alex scrubbed away some tears budding in his eyes. “I wanted you because you  _ weren’t  _ like them. You weren't trying to get that government check or use me to prop up your own worth. But  _ now? _ Jesus,George, you're such a hypocrite.”

George raised an eyebrow. “How in God’s name am I the hypocrite here?” Alex stalled, glancing back and forth between George and Ben. A stone dropped into Ben’s gut, cold fear gripping him. Something Alex didn't miss.

“Ben, does he not know?” Alex asked, “Do you not know, George?” George glanced at Ben, his confusion clear. Alex laughed. “Oh, this is good.” 

“ _ Don’t.”  _ Ben begged. 

“Alex, what--” 

“Ben is a runaway.” 

George faltered, unfurling his fists as he looked at Ben. “What? No, that's...not true. Ben is homeless. I found him on the trail back in September.” Alex pulled his phone out of his pocket, swiping to a page already pulled up. He turned it around so they could see. There, in black and white on the little screen, was a picture of Ben back at Yale, headlined by  _ Yale Student Disappears. _

Ben felt sick.  _ Physically sick.  _ All the times he should have came clean raced through his mind. Why,  _ why _ didn't he say anything? And why did this jerk have to resurrect himself just to ruin whatever life he has scraped together with George? His stomach pitched, and Ben could taste bile and bacon in the back of his throat. 

George took the phone, scrolling through the article in disbelief. “No, no this isn't...correct. This is for a Ben  _ Tallmadge,  _ not Brewster. And he's from Long Island, not Maine.” His voice wavered, eyes glistening in the light of the screen. Alex rolled his eyes.

“People can lie,George. I bet he sold you a bridge, too.” He scoffed. “Brewster is the name of the guy who reported him missing. Some old classmate or something. Ben here had a history of running away, too. Looks like he never looked back either, and you had no problem sticking your dick in that--”

“ _ Ben.” _ George croaked, turning to him. “Is this true?” Of course it was true. Ben couldn't lie about it with a goddamn article in George's hand. But the look of hurt on his face was heart wrenching. It reached into Ben’s soul and ripped him apart. His mouth went dry, tears rolling down his face.

“George, I..I wanted to tell you, truly--”

“You  _ used  _ me” 

Ben rose to his feet, hooking his hands on the front of George's sweater. “No, no, George I didn't. I swear, I just didn't know  _ how-- _ ” George gripped his wrists, prying him off. 

“Really. Not when you went through my things? Not when we supposedly cleared the air, and I told you everything about what happened with Alex? Was that not the opportune time to tell me this?”

Ben was frozen, his mind blank. “I'm  _ sorry, _ George. I should have, I really should have. I was  _ scared. _ ” George broke away, grabbing his jacket and keys off the hook and headed for the door. “George, where are you going?” 

“Out. I can't look at either of you right now.” He said, throwing the door open. Ben scrambled to the door, pleading with him desperately. He stumbled out the front door, gravel digging into his bare feet as he chased George to the car.

“George, please,  _ please. _ Don't go, don't leave me with him.  _ Please.” _

“Either he’ll leave or you will. You're both pros at it.” 

George slammed the door shut, putting his key in the ignition. Ben banged on the window, pleading with him harder to just  _ stay. Please stay. Don't leave me.  _ George scrubbed some tears from his face, putting the car in reverse. Ben watched as the car pulled away, his handprints smearing the driver's side window.

“ _ Please, no.” _

The car crunched along the gravel, turning onto the road at the end of the driveway, leaving Ben cold and barefoot in the yard.

* * *

It had been hours with no sign of George. Ben had kept his contact with Alex brief, locking himself into George's room with the dogs to weep. The last he saw Alex he had returned to eating his pancakes, tapping away on his phone. Yet now the house was quiet, save for the hiccuping sobs Ben laid into the duvet. Captain lay next to him, nosing softly at his cheek with concern. 

His body ached from crying, sleeves stained with snot as he rubbed his already raw nose again. He couldn't stay here forever. The dogs had already begun scratching at the door, eager to be let out into the yard. And George, though gone, may need to be convinced to come back. Alex hadn't left the house, his car still remained in the driveway. Which meant he was still lounging around the house, waiting for something else to ruin. 

Tipsy cried, flashing some sad puppy eyes that Ben knew meant pee pee time, and he had no intention of adding pissed stained floor to the list of reasons George hates him. He clicked the lock open, clicking his tongue to urge the dogs out of the room. “Out, out.” He said quietly, heading to the kitchen. 

Alex was on the couch, still on his phone. The only thing that seemed to change with Alex is his position. Ben could see him through the kitchen window as the dogs frolicked in the yard. First he lay down on the couch, then moved to the chair, back to the couch. It was almost as though he were upset, fidgety and hiding behind his blank expressionless face as they waited for George to return. 

It wasn't enough, however, for Ben to care. Alex had started this mess. No matter how he twisted the story, or dragged Ben through the mud, he fucked up first. Now he was just grasping at straws, willing to throw Ben aside to prove some point that has yet to be made. In all the chaos he had caused, Ben wondered if Alex’s wife even truly missed him. 

The screen door slammed on the way back in, four dogs scurrying to stretch out in the rest of the house. Alex was kicked off the sofa, Mopsey and Tipsy quick to hop up and lay flat across the cushions. Ben heard Alex mumble under his breath, and move back to the armchair. 

“You can sit in your room if they're in the way.” Ben said coldly. Alex didn't glance up from his phone, only offering a short  _ mhm _ .  Ben washed his hands in the kitchen sink, splashing some cold water on his face to take the redness from his eyes.

“You're going to need a whole lot more than a little splash.” Alex said, deadpan. “After that whole big scene you threw about being left alone here with me.” Ben huffed, ripping off a paper towel to pat dry his face. He then tore it angrily.

“Pardon me for not being excited to spend time with you, then.” He clipped. Alex shrugged, his phone buzzing in his palm. 

“Don't sweat it. Your company isn't needed.” He said. He tapped out a quick message before his phone dinged again. Ben’s brows knit together with frustration.

“Who the hell are you even talking to? I'd love to say it was your wife but I wouldn't give you that.” 

Alex glanced up, annoyed. “John.” He said. “And Eliza is fine.” Ben huffed, rolling Cloe off to the side with his foot. 

“At least you looked back this time right?” Ben mumbled, just a bit too loudly. Alex sat upright in his chair, phone now tucked back into his pocket.

“I don't need to. I told her I was going to be away a week or so for a conference. And I’ll be back when I said I would.” He said sternly. “I'm not 18 anymore. What's  _ your _ excuse? Daddy not buy you a new car for when you went back to Yale?” 

Ben dug his nails deep into the meat of his palm. “My  _ reasons _ for leaving aren't any of your business.” He snapped the leashes onto their wall hooks angrily. “Just like you have no business coming back here after what you did to George.” 

“I have a lot of business, actually. You're the outsider here.” Alex said. “And at least I came clean. Took me a while, but I did it. How long were  _ you _ going to wait? Stringing him along like you're some damsel in distress in need of someone to carry him to safety.”

“Shut up, Alex.”

“I'm sorry to shit on your fucking wet dream here, but life isn't a fairytale. You're not some poor wounded thing George found in the woods and nursed back to health with love and kindness because you're special. That's just who George is. You lied to him,  _ you _ hurt him---” 

“ _ I  _ hurt him?! What bullshit, Alex!” Ben shouted. “Yeah, I lied. I  _ fucked up. _ But that shit ruins  _ my _ reputation.  _ Not his.  _ I've seen how Sally treats him, and it's disgusting. They slipped me a note, they insinuated he was going to  _ kill _ me if I didn't reach out for their help. But what do you know? You were off studying and wooing your wife or some shit. Now that you're normal you come back here to make amends like this is some lifetime movie?!”

Alex stood up, “I don't need this shit.” He grabbed his coat, and started to turn for the door. All Ben saw was red. Alex would leave again. Alex wouldn't come back. George would come home and find Ben alone, and blame him. Nobody besides them even knew he was  _ here. Nothing would change _ . Ben grabbed the phone off the wall and began dialing furiously.

“George isn't going to pick up, jackass. He's been ignoring us all day.” Alex said, slipping on his jacket. Ben blinked the tears from his eyes, jaw clenching so hard he thought his teeth might shatter. The faint purr of the line ringing could be heard from the phone. 

“I'm not. I'm calling Mr.Sackett.” Ben said, praying he picked up his cell. Alex’s eyes widened. 

“No, don't call Sackett--” he said, shucking his jacket off. Ben heard the click of the phone being picked up, and the tinny sound of Sackett filter through.

“ _ Hello? George?” _

Ben cleared his throat, speaking quickly. “No it’s Ben. George is gone, we need to talk, it's about Alex.” Alex took a few steps closer, fists clenched. Ben backed up towards the sink. 

“ _ Son, we’ve talked about Alex’s disappearance--” _

Alex took a few more steps closer, and Ben felt the lip of the counter on his lower back. He mouthed a clear  _ don't _ , but the words spilled out of him. “No, no it's  _ Alex _ . He's  _ alive _ , he’s here and George is gone!” 

Alex let out a yell, charging towards Ben, knocking him to the ground. He hit the tile hard, just barely managing to hold onto the phone as he fell. 

“Give me the phone, you little blonde bitch!” Alex yelled, yanking hard on Ben’s hair as he tried to wrestle the phone from him. Ben cried out, jerking to try and throw Alex off of him.

“ _ Benjamin? Hello?!” _

Alex groped for the phone, trying his hardest to pry Ben’s fingers from around the plastic. “Help! Help!” He yelled, swinging an elbow back, hitting Alex in the chest. “Find George!”

“ _ I’m five minutes from your place, hold on”  _ Sackett said, hastily hanging up the phone. Ben slid the phone across the floor, flipping over to punch Alex. His fist collided with Alex’s cheek, so hard that Ben felt his cheek cut up against his teeth. Alex tumbled off him.

“ _ Fuck! _ I'm out of here. Fuck you!” Alex spat, blood and spittle flecking  Ben’s face. He scrambled to his feet, marching towards the door. Ben sprang to his feet, tackling Alex before he reached his jacket. 

“No,  _ no! _ You're gonna face your  _ shit. _ ” Ben hissed, slapping Alex’s arms as he tried to push Ben off.

“Get off!”

“Fuck you!” 

Ben landed one more good punch, this time to Alex’s outer arm as he flailed, before Alex was able to gain control. He flipped Ben, hard, slamming him against the floor. Ben saw white, his ears ringing until a new sensation cut through his haze: Alex’s fist against his cheek. Ben’s neck snapped in the direction of the punch, the taste of blood filling his mouth. Alex was straddling his chest, pinning him to the floor.

“I don't know whether to leave or stay and beat the shit out of you, but god it feels good to do this--” Alex stopped, interrupted by a swipe across his face from Ben. He cupped the area, removing his hand to examine the blood from the scratch marks Ben laid into his cheek. 

The hurried sound of crunching gravel in the driveway broke through, and Alex hopped off Ben in an attempt to grab his car keys. Ben’s hand shot out, grabbing Alex by the ankle and yanking sharply, felling him in one swift move. 

“Benjamin! Alex!” 

Ben looked up to see Sackett in the doorway, huffing and puffing, barely able to hold onto the spare key in his hand. “Help!” Ben cried out, prompting the man to scramble in and scoop Alex up into a crushing hold. 

“Let me go!” 

Sackett wrangled Alex to the couch sitting down and balancing him like a toddler in a tantrum on his lap. “It's nice to see you again, too.” 

Ben crawled off the floor, pulling himself into the armchair. Blood dropped from his face and onto the upholstery, something he'd apologize to George for profusely. Some painful poking at his face confirmed his lip was split, and his cheekbone felt bruised. “You fucking psycho, you're a piece of shit.” Ben choked, wiping his tears eyes on his sleeve. 

Sackett shushed them, his hold on Alex not letting up. “I was able to call George. He’ll be home soon, and when he does, we’ll sort this out.” Ben nodded, letting his head fall into his hands.

“Yes, please.” 

* * *

Ben felt his gut clench as George's car sped into the driveway. His footsteps were heavy and rushed, and he threw open the door as if to expect a crime scene. It might as well be. Ben sat still in the armchair, lip swollen and cheek turning purple by the minute. Alex remained locked in Sackett’s grip, but strained and struggled upon seeing George. 

“Nathaniel.” George said, clicking the door shut. “You can release Alex. He won’t be throwing any more punches.” Alex scowled, and wrenched himself out of the older man’s arms, putting space between them. George walked to the living room, glancing down at Ben in the armchair. Ben lowered his gaze, to ashamed to see the look of hurt on George's face. 

“ _ Ben.”  _ His voice cracked and waived. “Go clean up.” Ben scurried out of his chair, heading towards the bathroom. Alex had made a mess, yes, but it wasn't something a good scrub and a pack of ice couldn't mend. Ben washed the blood from his face, watching as the water swirling the drain turned pink. His lip throbbed mercilessly, so much so that Ben could barely dab at it with the washcloth. After a few futile minutes of trying, Ben turned off the tap, grabbing a clean washcloth to wrap an ice pack in. 

The room was still silent when he plopped back into the armchair, noting that someone had tried to scrub the blood from the seat. The upholstery was damp and smudged. George spoke up first.

“I want this to be the last time I find out anything.” He said. “I have had a  _ rough _ couple of years. Regardless of whether or not that was intended,  _ it happened. _ But I cannot bear to continue on like this. Not if it means I have the rug pulled out from under me every time I feel like my life is…” he looked at Ben quickly, but averted his gaze. “Is happier. So, let's finish this.” 

Sackett inhaled sharply, wiping his palms on his slacks. “Well now, has Alex told you why he left?” George nodded. “Where shall we start?” 

Alex cleared his throat, rubbing the sore spot on his arm where Ben punched him. “Look, I'm not comfortable with Sackett here. Ok? This, this is private.” He mumbled. George shook his head. 

“Nathaniel was the only friend I had after you left. So unless you plan to expose some dark secret of his, I don't see the need for him to leave.” Sackett raised an eyebrow, and George loosely gestured at Ben. “He's.” George stopped, choked up. “He's not homeless. He ran away.” 

Sackett turned to Ben. “Is this true, son?” Ben nodded weakly, cheeks burning with shame. Alex shoved his hands in his pockets. 

“I thought you knew, George. That's why I was so pissed. I mean, coming down on me for not looking back? When  _ he _ didn't even look back?” 

Ben pressed the ice pack closer to his lip. “Can you not...can you not bring that up?”he mumbled. Alex huffed.

“Why? I had to.” 

Ben grit his teeth. “Because  _ I _ didn't start this mess, Alex. You're so eager to shoulder all of this onto me. Put me in the spotlight in some attempt to wiggle out of apologizing like a decent human being. You have a child, dude. Stop acting like one.” 

“I'm a child? Life here wasn't peachy, ok? My real dad split, my mom croaked, and I got stuck with Mr. And Mrs.  _ Where’s Your Check _ . Years,  _ years _ of of that bullshit. Wearing things until they fell apart. Being berated for asking for things like goddamn jeans that I didn't outgrow three years ago. And where did that money go? Some new shiny tv or something I couldn't touch because I'd ruin it with my delinquent orphan hands. So don't start with me, not when you're life was some cushy suburban nonsense, where mom and dad were there and life revolved around the latest game system.”

Ben clenched his jaw. “Don't. Don’t you assume you know me from a fucking two paragraph article. Your life was tough, and I'm sorry about that, but it does not give you authority to say that my pain isn't valid. That what  _ I  _ left behind was some beautiful home where nothing went wrong.” Ben felt his chest tighten. “My life isn't some plea my parents wrote in a newspaper.” 

Alex smirked, a sight that Ben had grown to fucking loathe. “Parents? From what I read they didn't even report you missing. Chocked it up to your little habit of crying in your friend’s basement. That guy Brewster called you in, only after three weeks. Way to go, drama queen.” He wagged his finger at Ben. “As a matter of fact, I remember seeing you on the news for all of ten seconds.” 

Sackett held a hand up to stop Alex, seeing the way Ben turned white. “Son, I suggest you stop this.”

“George? Should I stop this?” George only stood by, arms crossed across his chest. Tears in his eyes.

“So what do you want, Alex? You won the runaway popularity contest. A whole town looked for you for weeks. Mine didn't notice at all. My parents don't love me, so there you go. What more do you want?” Ben said quietly. No matter how hard he tried, his voice trembled. But he knew what Alex wanted. To drag him around a bit more. Humiliate him. Make him spew up the awful reason he can't go back home, or to Yale. Why he can't look at Nate’s picture for more than a few seconds, even after all these months. 

“I want to know why.” Alex said. “It's only fair, right? You all knew why I left. All had your fun picking that scab. So let's just air it all out, for George.”

Sackett eyed Ben again, now shifting uncomfortably. “I suggest if Ben wishes to share he share with just George---”

“Oh shut it.” Alex said. “So what happened Ben? Daddy raise a hand to you?” He stepped closer. Ben gripped the armrests of his chair. 

“Stop it.” 

“Divorce? Divorce is a biggie.” He said, advancing closer. George stepped forward, now looking panicked.

“Alexander, enough of this.” He said, putting a hand on the back of Ben’s chair. “He's not a witness on the stand.”

Alex shrugged. “We’re just clearing the air. Like you said. Unless you're afraid of being just like John. Enabling some poor runaway who left a bunch of problems in his wake.” George swallowed thickly, frozen.

“You cannot hold everyone in this room emotionally hostage.” Sackett said, standing up. “And I may not have known Ben long but he does not deserve this. I suggest we leave this be." 

“And  _ I  _ deserve this?” Alex spat. Sackett was unable to keep him from turning his wrath back to Ben. “So tell me.” Ben froze in his seat, paralyzed as Alex closed in on him. 

“Tell me.”

“Stop, please.”

“ Tell me.”

“ _ Please.” _

“Alexander, stop this--”

“Not until he tells me, George. So hurry up and spit it out, Ben. Why the  _ fuck _ did a straight-A golden boy from Yale end up leaving it all behind?” Ben felt his heart pound so loud that it drowned out Alex’s questions, leaving him with only lips that moved silently, sending the same words directly into his brain.  _ Tell me tell me tell me tell me. _ Over and over until Ben felt the tears dripping down off his chin and onto the hands clasped in his lap. Somewhere far off he swore he could hear George beg, no-- _ demand _ Alex to stop. But nothing stops Alex. Not death. Not time. Not the people he loves. Ben is in his way, and this won't stop until he breaks. And Ben, well, breaks.

“Because it's  _ my fault”  _ Ben cried. “It's my fault ok, it's my...fault it's my  _ fault ok?! _ ” Everything is too much. The collar of his shirt is choking him. The fabric of his jeans scratch against his thighs. His skin is crawling and he can feel each and  _ every _ hair on his head and it  _ burns. _ His hands move independently, tearing the hair from his scalp. He sees a few clumps float to the floor like soft little tumbleweeds. He screams, so loudly that Alex actually steps back, his face white. 

“It's my fault and he’s DEAD, OK. HE’S DEAD” George swooped in, prying Ben’s hands from his scalp before he could pull out another fistful. He then immediately dropped them, unsure of how to proceed. 

“Benjamin, please--”

“HE’S DEAD” 

“Not here, ok? Let's get you to the room.” George said, “Can I touch you?” Ben must have nodded, though he can only vaguely recall being lifted out of the chair and carried to George's room. He only saw bits and pieces. Alex sitting on the couch, looking white as a sheet. Sackett watching with concern as he was carried off. The soft touch of George's hands on his cheeks as he was laid onto the bed.

“Benjamin, it's ok.” He cooed, smoothing the hair back from Ben’s eyes. “I'm sorry. I'm  _ sorry.  _ You don't have to tell me. And definitely not Alex. Some things deserve to be kept private--”

“ _ No.  _ No. I…” Ben pressed the heel of his palms over his eyes. He sucked in a few raspy breaths, struggling for some control. “I can't  _ lie _ about this.”

“You're not lying, Ben. Not to me.” 

Ben sniffled, wiping the snot away from his nose with his sleeve. “He's dead, George. Nate’s dead.” 

George laced his fingers with Ben’s.

“Tell me about it.”

“Nate he was,  _ god, _ he was everything. We weren't, y’know, we weren't together. But we could have been. I was scared and we didn't and...that's another thing, I'm sorry.” He said weakly. 

“Nate was gonna go home for the summer and come out to his parents.” Ben said. “And he told me...not to call. Just until things settled. But I was  _ scared. _ The fighting got worse, George and I needed him. I wanted to hear his voice and for him to tell me that's it's ok. So like a  _ fucking idiot  _ I called.” 

George watched and listened patiently, gently stroking his thumb along the side of Ben’s hand. “He never responded.” Ben said. It took a moment for it to reach George. For his eyes to light up with the chilling realization of what happened to Nate. 

“How did you find out?” He whispered. Ben blinked back tears.

“When he...passed, his parents went through his stuff. They found my info and called my parents. My parents  _ didn't know.” _ Ben croaked. “And so, the fighting. The screaming. And then...the woods.”

George let out a shuddered breath, squeezing Ben’s hand tightly. “Oh Ben, sweetie. I'm so sorry. For everything.” He said, placing a kiss on his forehead. “This doesn't change anything, you know that right? With us, or with Alex and his  _ shit.”  _ George said, throwing a look over his shoulder at the closed door. “I...can't imagine a life here without you. I don't care how you got here. Just that you're safe.” 

Ben's face screwed up into a silent sob, and George pulled him close so that he could weep into his chest. “It's ok. You didn't know.” George soothed. “You didn't know.” He kissed the top of Ben’s head. “My brave little soldier. Keeping that to yourself this whole time.” Ben shook, twisting George’s tear and snot stained sweater in his fists.

“You don't hate me?”

“Never. I could never hate you.” George said. “And this is traumatic and painful, and you need time to mourn. Real time, where you're not pretending.” Ben whimpered against his chest.

“Want me to get the dogs?”

Ben rubbed at his eyes looking up at George. “H-here? On the bed? No, no it's ok, they're not allowed--” Ben was silenced by a short, sweet kiss, and the brush of George's thumb under his eye. 

“In hindsight, it's not that big a rule. What's a few more in the daddy bed?” George said. Ben laughed, and reached for a tissue on the bedside table. 

“So you’re still calling it that?” He said, smiling meekly. George returned the smile.

“If you’ll let me.”

“I’ll consider it.” 


	16. Chapter 16

That evening had ended quietly, in the way horrible days just kind of petered out. George had unlocked the door, and unshared in four very concerned pups, all of which forgot Ben entirely once they realized they were allowed on  _ the bed.  _ Close passed out instantly, her nose buried in one of George’s sweaters lying crumpled on the bed. Mopsey and Tipsy rolled around aimlessly, almost as if to taunt George, who watched the scene with only the faintest hint of unease.

“They’ll never listen to me now.” He mumbled, watching as Captain curled up in Ben’s lap. “They already know they can get away with sleeping next to you.” Ben let out a little huff of a laugh, scratching behind Captain’s ear. The pup kicked absentmindedly, panting and wagging his tail.

“Spoil them a little, George.”

Dinner was taken in the room. George ordered Chinese, and brought in two TV trays. Ben had insisted he was fine enough to eat in the kitchen, despite Alex still being in the house, but his protests were shot down. 

Instead, George set up his laptop, pulling up an old movie he and Ben hadn't quite finished. It droned on endlessly, black and white flickering over the screen as Ben forked lo mein into his mouth, careful not to drop any on the duvet. George did the same, having undone his belt buckle and slouched against the headboard lazily. 

It was comfy. Quiet. If there was anything Ben couldn't handle right now, it was more words. More thoughts to push through his already mushed mind. The tv was enough to drown out the silence. George was enough to stave off the panic. 

After dinner was cleared George peeked his head into the room, his voice a low murmur. “Nathaniel wishes to check up on you, health wise. Would that be ok?” Ben nodded. He was utterly grateful that Sackett arrived when he did, or who knows what state he’d be in. His split lip throbbed at the thought. 

Sackett stepped sideways through the door, his robust frame almost knocking a knick knack off the long dresser on the way in. He took careful steps, as though Ben were a fawn, and the faintest snap of a twig would prompt him to bolt out into the night. Ben glanced at the medical bag in his hand, and scooched over on the bed to give Sackett a place to set it down.

“Thank you, my boy.” He said quietly. His eyes were still warm and sparkling, just like the first time he came to visit. Warm and careful, like handling a frightened child. “I’d like to check your blood pressure, and just overall see how you're feeling. Will that be ok?” Ben nodded. “Good.”

The band was velcroed onto Ben’s arm, cold stethoscope placed at the warm skin of his inner elbow. Ben always hated having his blood pressure taken. Something about the gradual squeeze of the band made him anxious, as though he was caught in a vice, unable to escape lest he chew off his own arm. Sackett pumped air into the band, and the first squeeze almost sent bile shooting up his throat. He could taste his dinner, forced to stare at his own lap while Sackett finished. The band came off quickly.

“Are you still very anxious, Benjamin?” He asked. Ben nodded, rubbing his newly freed arm. “Would you like to take something to calm you down?” Another nod sent Sackett rifling through his bag, muttering to himself until he found a small orange pill bottle. A pill was dropped in his palm, and despite the urge to lick it up, Ben waited until Sackett told him what it was and what might happen. It didn't matter though. All that mattered was that it took the edge off. That Ben could close his eyes and sleep tonight. A cup of water and a few quick swallows did the trick. 

“I will be staying here tonight in the guest room.” Sackett said.  _ Keeping an eye on Alex,  _ Ben thought to himself. He numbly fumbled through some more questions about whether he felt safe here. Whether George and him should get a hotel room for the night and put some distance between them and Alex. Ben declined. He'd much rather sleep in George's bed, in their home, with their dogs. Sackett smiled.

“Then I’ll leave you to your rest.” He ruffled Ben’s hair the way you might do to a child, and Ben felt a smile cross his lips, as well as a  _ thank you.  _

George arrived a moment later with a fresh cold water bottle from the fridge. Ben could hear the plastic crinkle next to his head as it was placed on the night stand. 

“Let's get you ready for bed.”

Ben hummed, feeling George's hands slide under his back to help lift him from the mattress. Through his haze he could feel his shirt removed, and glimpsed George frowning at the blood and snot around the collar. His pants were unbuttoned and pulled off, George’s palms smoothing along his thighs. Ben shivered, leaning into the warmth of George's touch, focusing on it with his entire mind. And then came a soft t-shirt, three sizes too big. Loose pj pants hoisted up around his waist, a tender kiss placed at his navel. Ben sighed, his body feeling heavy and warm. 

“George…”

“Bed time.” 

The dogs were reinvited to the bed, Ben feeling four little sets of paws tread across the mattress, and four little butts settle in for the night. Followed by one big dip of the mattress where George rolled into bed. It only took a moment for Ben to snuggle up, smell the scent of citrus soap on George’s skin, and the lingering trace of aftershave, before it became too hard to keep his eyes open. 

In fact, Ben was out before before George said  _ Goodnight. _

* * *

Ben vaguely recalls George rising to send out the morning orders. The feel of George's lips pressed against his hair, voice sleep rough and low.

“Get some sleep. I’ll handle it.”

When he next opened his eyes it was morning, and the room was awash in hazy golden light. It took a few minutes to blink through his blurry sleep ridden vision, but soon the room began to shape up and focus into one he knew. George’s sweater was on the chair, the dogs lounging on the bed or by the door. A quick glance at the clock told Ben he had missed breakfast, and taking them outside. All of which George seemed to cover himself. 

Hesitantly, Ben crawled out of bed, the floor cold against the soles of his feet. He had missed the heat come up too. The day before hit him in a wave, draining what little energy his long night of sleep granted him. He’d have to face Alex today. And if not today, tomorrow. What did it matter when it happened, right? It was going to happen. 

Approaching the door, Ben could hear hushed voices just outside. 

“Today, Alex. I mean it.” 

Ben froze, training his ears to tune in to whatever conversation George was trying to keep quiet. “You can come with me to Sally’s, do what you want, but at the end of the day you will leave.” George's voice was firm, almost cold. A small huff escaped Alex.

“Yeah, ok. I'll tell the bitch off and then scram. Just like you want--”

“ _ Alexander. _ None of this is what I want.” Alex fell quiet, and Ben could hear George suck in a breath. “For  _ years _ I wanted nothing more than to see you safe. But never... _ never... _ did I expect something like this. Not once in all the nights I lay awake wondering where you went.”

“ _ George--” _

“ _ No.  _ Just  _ listen, _ because it may very well be the last time you ever do. The Alex I knew was a young, ambitious man. He took what little he had and he built off it.  _ That _ was something I admired. But this? The person I saw yesterday? That is not the Alex I knew. That was someone ugly. Someone vicious and cruel. I didn't teach you that.” George paused, his voice cracking.

“And I never would have thought that when I found you, I'd never want to see you again. You were a  _ son _ to me. Family I never had. Family  _ you  _ never had. And I could have forgiven it. I could have accepted that you were young, afraid, and made the worst mistake of your life. But you managed to top that when you decided to tear down Ben.” 

Alex shuffled his feet. “George, I'm sorry, ok? I fucked up.”

“Yes. You did. Sorry doesn't cut it. Sorry would have been acceptable for the  _ fuck you _ at the door. I never,  _ ever _ want to see you in my home again. Do you understand me?” Silence. “ _ Alexander.” _

“Yes, sir.” 

Ben wrung his hands nervously, unsure whether to tiptoe back to bed, or interrupt this little talk. As tempting as it was to crawl back into bed and sleep easy knowing Alex would not be staying the week, the hunger pangs in his stomach made the decision for him. His fingers just barely brushed the door knob when Alex spoke again.

“So...it's serious, then? You and him?”

Ben recognized the sound of Georg shifting on his feet. In his mind’s eye he looked tall and strong, legs planted in that unmovable stance he took when making a point. 

“I love him, if that's what you mean.” 

Ben’s heart leapt into his throat.  _ Love.  _ After all this? After all he put George through? The lying, the snooping, the fighting and drunken mistakes he's made. After he let Nate slip through his fingers...there was a person left...and George  _ loved that person? _ For once Ben was thankful he was eavesdropping, able to take advantage of the privacy of the room to choke out a few blubbery sobs. 

“Ben?”

Ben cursed himself silently, jumping back into bed with such speed that Captain was jolted awake by the bounce of the mattress. “ _ Sorry, boy” _ Ben whispered, pulling the covers to his chin just before George opened the door.

“Benjamin? I heard you crying, are you alright?”

_ You love me _

“I...I'm just a little emotional still.” Ben fumbled. “I'm sorry.” George closed the door behind him, swiftly moving to take a seat on the edge of the bed. Ben sighed as his hand rested on his knee, giving it a firm reassuring squeeze.

“Don't be. You have a long way to go. No one here will rush you.” He paused, looking for some way to take Ben’s mind away from the crying. “Breakfast is on the table. I can reheat it. Me and Alex are going to settle some business down at Sally’s. Sackett will come too, unless you’d prefer company in the house.”

Ben shook his head. “No...that's ok. I...I have something I need to do. A call I need to make.” The words stuck in his throat, shame coloring his cheeks red. He really wasn't all that much better than Alex. Calling home after months. Ben let his head droop, bangs covering his tear filled eyes. 

“Ben, darling.” A hand gently nudged his chin up. George's eyes were unforgivably kind. The type of kindness that cut you to your core. Open and accepting. Steady. Radiant. “It's not the same. It will never be the same.”

Ben’s lip quivered, tears clumping in his lashes. “But what if I don't get better? What if it takes too long and you don't…” he steadied his breath. “You don't  _ want  _ me anymore.” A pang of sadness crossed George's features, and it occurred to Ben that George had never  _ considered  _ this.

“I can assure you I am quite happy.  _ However _ ...you're so young. It's more likely you who will tire of me. Tire of being alone up here with just me, the dogs, and a knee that will probably get worse each winter.” He said. Ben moved so that George's broad hand cupped his face, leaning into his touch tenderly.

“George, I won't.”

“ _ But if you do... _ never be afraid to tell me. I will do everything in my power to give you a fresh start on your own. Find you a new place. A new job. Anything you need. You are not captive here. Your well being does not come at the price of your love.”

Ben felt his face screw up, ugly tears streaming down his cheeks. There was no price for comfort here, yet Ben wanted so desperately to pay out every ounce of love he felt. Every happy thought and sappy dream he's ever had, all poured into a little jar he could hand to George. Watch him take it in his hands and see,  _ physically see, _ how much he loved it here. How this was his  _ home.  _ And George was  _ his.  _ But all he could do was sniffle, and accept a tissue meekly. 

George placed a kiss on his brow, smoothing his hair back affectionately. “I'm going to head out, Ben. Take your time on that call, ok?”

Ben nodded, dabbing at his red nose with the tissue. The snot stung his split lip, and Ben tried not to wince as the tissue grazed against it.

“Ok. Come home soon.”

* * *

Ben let the dial tone buzz too long for the fourth time. Every time he took the phone off the hook he swore he’d jump right in. Dial and let out the truth. Yet every time he would stare at the keypad, hands so sweaty they could barely keep a firm grasp on the hard plastic body of the phone. Once he dialed the area code, then panicked and hung up. Ben estimated it took him twenty minutes to dial the number he had memorized since he was 14.

The phone rang once. Twice. Three times. It only served to tighten the knot of anxiety twisting in the pit of his stomach. What if he got the machine? God what if someone  _ answered?  _ He hadn't prepared any notes. Made any plans on how to break the news. He should just hang up. Make some bullet points and try again later. But the phone decided for him, and a voice crackled on the line.

“Hello?”

Ben swallowed thickly. “Hi...Caleb…” There was silence on the end of the line. Ben wondered if he even sounded the same anymore. 

“Yeah, who’s callin’?” He seemed distracted. Ben would have thought work, until the sounds of video games filtered through the phone. Ben couldn't help but smile. He was on speaker phone at Caleb’s house. Just like old times. 

“It's me...Ben.” 

There was a clamber on the other line, and the sounds of the game abruptly halted. The phone clicked off speaker, and Caleb’s voice rang clear through. 

“ _ Benny? _ ”

Ben wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve, unable to stop the shaking in his voice. “Caleb,  _ it's me.” _ He choked out a sob. “I'm so sorry!” Sniffling trickled in from the other end of the phone, Caleb's breathing ragged.

“Benny, where are you? This area code is weird. Do you need help?” 

“No! No, Caleb I'm fine, really I’m...I'm in Virginia.” He could see Caleb double take in his mind.

“Virginia?! Christ, Benny how’d you end up there?” Ben laughed, sniffling still through his sleeve. Something about Caleb put him at ease. And even after this...after all the crap he caused...there was still that light hearted tone that made him feel like a child again. 

“I, uh, walked.” 

“ _ Ben.”  _

It didn't take much longer for Ben to tell him how he ended up in Virginia. The trail, the robbery. The onslaught of sickness that made him hate pooping in a bush for the rest of his life. And Caleb listened, his tone becoming gradually softer. 

“I heard about Nate. Anna heard from your folks.” 

Ben coughed awkwardly. “It was my fault, Caleb. He told me not to call and I did and he...he's fucking gone. And then my parents came down on me and I just ran.” Ben sniffled as another used  tissue was thrown into the crumpled pile on the kitchen table. “I ran and I'm so sorry.” 

Caleb sighed. “I don't blame you for runnin’. Your folks were shit to you. But Ben...you didn't even say  _ goodbye.” _

_ “I didn't want you to look for me.” _ Ben cried. “I wanted to  _ die, ok? _ Caleb you're my best friend and all I ever did was cry in your basement.” His lungs ached from a breathe he couldn't catch. “How could I come and tell you goodbye?”

Caleb sniffled on the line, an occasional  _ oh Jesus  _ or  _ yeah, ok _ coming through. “Ben. You're my best friend. Yeah, I would have stopped you. But...you're alive. Something happened out there, right? You're somewhere safe?” His tone was pleading, as though he was going to learn that Ben was calling from a police station, or prison. 

“A man found me in the woods.”

“ _ Oh Christ.” _

“No, no it...wasn't at all like that.He actually saved my life.” Ben said. He could hear Caleb fidgeting with something, probably his key chain. Something he did when he was nervous.

“Who is this guy?” 

Ben smiled, a wonderful warmth flooding his chest.

“His name is George.” 

* * *

The truth had come flooding out, with Ben recounting all his exploits as a junior baker. George's dogs and the house. Their blossoming romance and the arrival of Alex. Caleb listened with utmost care, and even sounded jovial as Ben told him all about his first date with George.

“He sounds fantastic, Ben. Only you would walk into the woods and be carried out by a literal dream boat.” Ben laughed loudly, fiddling with the phone cord. 

“He's...amazing, Caleb, and I think I can live here. Like...really live here.” He waited for some protest where Caleb would bring up that he'd much rather Ben live in his basement and vacuum dust bunnies all day, but none arose. Instead, Caleb only asked one thing.

“May I visit?”

Ben felt his heart skip a beat. “Yes! I mean, I know George won't mind--”

“He shouldn't. That's the point. I want to see him. If he truly understands all this, he’ll let me see you. And hug you, buddy, because I've been worried sick for months.” Ben slumped his shoulders.

“I know. I'm--”

“Sorry, you're sorry, yes. Listen, I'm saving his number. Have George call me later? I want to have a little chat with him. See if he's treating my best pal right. I  _ assume  _ he's been real good to you.” He said, voice wicked and suggestive. Ben balked.

“ _ Caleb--” _

“That's a yes. Way to go, Tallboy! Is he good?”

“Why do you ask when you know I have no frame of reference?” Ben joked. “But if you must know, yes. Very good.” Hearty laughter rang through the phone, forcing Ben to hold the receiver away from his ear. 

“Alright, Caleb, I’ll...call you back?” 

Caleb sighed. “You promise?”

“Yeah. I promise.” There was a little nervous hiccup on the phone Ben could pick out as the beginning of a sob. 

“I  _ mean it, _ Ben. Promise me. Because I can't imagine another couple months without your voice.” Tears pricked at the corner of Ben’s eyes.

“I promise you, Caleb. I will call back. And every day as long as we both have stuff to say. I won't ever do this again.” 

Caleb’s voice trembled, and he sucked in a sharp breath. “Good. Good. Hey, uh, listen. You may need to hang up first, because I sure as hell can’t bring myself to hang up on you.”

“I know.” Ben whispered. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Benny. Don't ever hesitate to call.”

Ben's hand shook as the phone hovered above it’s cradle, the faint crackling sound of an open line to Setauket still coming through. Why was it so hard to hang up? It's not like it would be forever. Only a few hours. A few hours before Ben could call again and begin to make amends for a slew of mistakes. Caleb must have been waiting for the call to end, because the quiet sound of his voice came through the speaker.

“It's ok. I trust you. Hang up.”

Ben nodded, though he was aware Caleb couldn't see it. “ _ Thank you.” _ He breathed, finally resting the phone back in its proper place. The house was quiet, and Ben sat still in the kitchen. It didn't disturb him much as it would have a few weeks ago. There was no need to fill the silence. There was just Caleb’s words, and the feeling of a weight lifted from his shoulders.

_ It’s ok. I trust you. _

* * *

The crackle of tires on gravel alerted Ben that George was home, and though he felt much better, his gut told him to duck into their bedroom to avoid bumping into Alex abruptly. His gut was partially right, catching a piece of a heated conversation as George unlocked the front door.

“What? It was my favorite tree.”

“Yes, Alexander, so you told everyone during your reprisal of being the Phantom Pisser.” George sighed. Ben could hear his keys being thrown on the table, and apples going into the fridge. The conversation trailed off, Alex heading towards his room as George fiddled around in the kitchen.

“So, now?”

“Yes. Go get your things together. It's time.” Ben felt a stone drop in his belly. Alex was really leaving. For  _ good. _ Alex must have taken the order, because George rounded up the dogs for their afternoon let out. The screen door slammed loudly, and Ben opened the door to his bedroom. 

He stepped out cautiously, feeling emboldened by the fact that in a few short minutes Alex would be in a car back to New York, and out of their hair. It also made him a little curious. Tip toeing down the hall, Ben caught sight of Alex through a crack in the door. He sat on the bed, hugging a pillow tightly to his chest. His bag was packed, just as neat and orderly as when he pulled it out of his car. The sight looked rather pitiful, and Ben felt a twist in his gut. 

It was like looking through time, Alex’s age melting away to a young high schooler. Lost, alone. Scared. And though Ben wanted nothing more than to put his fist through Alex’s skull, he instead gently nudged the door open to the room. It opened with a creak, and Alex looked up at him like a deer in headlights. Ben knew the red blotchy eyes and tear tracked cheeks all too well, though it did little to stoke any pity in him.

“What do you want?” Alex mumbled, wiping at his face. Ben looked over the scene. Took in the wall paper. The bed spread. All of which unchanged since Alex had left. 

“I don't want anything. Not from you.” Ben said. He picked at his cuticles, leaning against the door frame. Alex steeled his jaw. 

“Did you come to gloat, then? He chose you.” Ben shrugged. 

“Not that either.” 

“Then  _ what.” _

Ben sighed. “To tell you that he loved you in his own way. Before...yesterday...he told me that despite you leaving, he could forgive you. When he heard you had a wife, a family, it brought him so much joy.” Ben watched Alex squirm, and hug the pillow tighter. “So why did you throw that all away?” 

Alex crumpled, head between his knees. “I break everything I touch. I do. I just thought George wouldn't be one of those things, and...and…” he hiccuped loudly. “ _ God.  _ I saw you and I wanted to shatter you. This was  _ my _ room.  _ My _ home. And he replaced me.”

“This was always your home.” Ben said. “I lived with your ghost. George lived with your burden. Everything you left remains here untouched. Is that not what families do? Keep things from loved ones?” It took all his strength not to raise his voice and escalate this into an argument.

“Not anymore...he doesn't want me around anymore…” Alex said. “And this isn't my home.”

“No. It isn't. And I would hope it wouldn't be. Your home is with your wife and son. Two people who look to you for comfort. Imagine that.” Ben said sternly. “I don't blame you for feeling sad. George is...George. Turning you away is the hardest thing he's ever had to do. What’s the hardest thing you ever had to do?”

Alex paused, and nodded. “ _ Leave.  _ Leave here for good.” Ben crossed his arms over his chest.

“Then shouldn't you face that?”

Ben watched as Alex rose from the bed, numbly collecting his coat and hoisting the bag over his shoulder. He kept his eyes to the floor as he approached Ben, a folded piece of paper in his hand.

“I had a much different hope for this visit.” He breathed, rubbing the paper between his thumb and forefinger. “I was going to show him all I've done. I just wanted to make him proud. And I…” he trailed off, unable to find any excuse worthy enough to spit out. It wasn't good enough. Nothing could remedy what he did to Ben. He handed Ben the paper.

“That's my son, Philip. He's two years old, and last week I taught him how to bake cookies.” Alex choked out. Ben unfolded the paper, looking at a printed out picture of Alex holding up a flour speckled child, complete with sticky cookie dough hands. 

“I know that means nothing now. But please tell him when he's not as mad.” Ben bit his lip, and stepped aside to let Alex pass. “I'm sorry about your friend. It's not your fault.” Ben pocketed the photo, and whispered a small  _ I know.  _ He watched as Alex tread down the hall, taking in the house one last time. The screen door shuttered open as George and the dogs returned.

“Ready?” 

“Yeah.”

George threw a glance towards Ben, a curious  _ are you ok _ . Ben offered a brief nod and walked him and Alex to the door. The lock clicked open, and Alex stepped over the threshold. George held tight to the door frame.

“Have a safe drive. Stop if you need to.” He offered. Alex nodded weakly, shifting the bag on his shoulder. He stood on the door mat, unsure whether to leave silently or drop a few parting words. But his eyes were pleading, and his hands were shaking, and Ben had to grip the back of George's shirt to steady himself for the last goodbye. And when it came, it was brief.

“Thank you.” Alex whispered, tears welling in his eyes. “For everything.”

Ben could feel George tremble beneath his fingers.

“Goodbye, Alexander.” 

The light seemed to fade from Alex’s eyes, and he dipped his head in acknowledgment. Ben watched as he turned on his heel, headed to the car, and got in. George stayed at the door, right on the threshold, as the car started up and slowly rolled back. It was Alex and the car. And then Alex in the side view mirror. And then tail lights. Then nothing. 

George closed the door, unable to keep his calm demeanor. He slumped against the wall, breath raspy and hiccuping, pulling Ben so close that he was buried in his chest. Ben inhaled deeply, smelling soap and the unwashable scent of vanilla extract on his shirt. His knees turned to jelly, and the two of them slid slowly to the floor, curled in each other’s arms, weeping.

“I love you.” Ben hiccuped, mostly into George's bicep. George squeezed tighter, his breath ragged and hot against Ben’s hair. 

“I love you too.”

* * *

Three Years Later

Ben puffed as they rounded the bend, hiking sticks doing little to help him keep up with George's brisk pace. “Hey old man, you're just going to out run me?” He huffed, hobbling over a rock in the way. “Or is this some elaborate plan to ditch me?”

George laughed, adjusting the shoulder straps of his backpack. “You're getting soft. Too many cupcakes.”

“I eat the duds and you know it.”

“Mhm I see you drop them on purpose. Five second rule my ass.” George chided. He looked up and down the path, as if sweeping for a route. Ben took a long swig of water, and poured a small handful to wet his hair.

“Dear god we’re lost.” 

“We’re not lost, Ben. I'm out here all the time.” He said. A few seconds went by, and George's face only screwed up in more confusion. “But now that you mention it….”

“Oh my god.” 

“I'm kidding, I'm kidding. We go this way.” He said, turning towards the trees.  _ This way _ turned out to be a little foot path hidden by overgrown bushes, and it led through the trees to a tiny open clearing. Ben sighed with relief as George unhooked his backpack.

“We’re here! Wherever here is…” he exclaimed, still unsure as to why George dragged him out here. It was considerably far from home. So much so that George didn't want to bring the dogs, and he  _ always _ brought the dogs. Ben unclipped his pack and lay it against a rock.

“So what is this place.”

George looked around. “You mean this isn't familiar?” Ben paused. It looked like a dirt patch. Small and feeble and not even a good place to picnic. 

“No?”

George walked over to him, wrapping his arms around Ben’s middle. “Three years ago, on a cold night, I found something here. Something very special to me.” Ben perked up, glancing around the patch once more. It  _ couldn't  _ be. It was dark when he camped here. Though...George knew his way well, and Ben was sick as a dog. 

“Here?”

“Yes. Here.” George cooed. “And in those three years that special gift has brought me more joy than I could imagine. Do you know what that is?”

Ben bit his lip coyly. “the longest recorded case of poison oak?”

George chuckled. “No, darling. You.” Ben blushed and leaned forward to catch George's lips in a kiss. It missed, however, hitting air as George sunk to the ground.Sunk to his knees. Or rather, one knee. Ben felt his heart race as he saw George's hand pull something from his pocket, something that glinted in the light. 

“Benjamin Tallmadge, from the moment you tried to stab me on this trail I have cared for you. And care turned to love, which turned into the best thing in my life. You're my partner in all aspects of our life. I cannot imagine life without you, and I hope…” he held a small silver band between his fingers, smooth and delicate “...that this is the start of the rest of our lives together. Will you marry me?”

Ben’s answer came in the form of his lips crushed against George's, toppling the two of them into the dirt. In hindsight, Ben would recall how easily they could have lost the ring. In the moment, George was reliable enough to keep it clenched in his fist, using his free hand to pull Ben close on top of him. 

“Either this is a yes, or the most enthusiastic no a man could hope for.” George breathed, staring up at Ben. Ben kissed him once more before fishing the ring out of his grip. 

“It's a yes.” 

The ring fit. It all seemed to fit. And Ben had a sneaky suspicion that Caleb helped pry precious jewelry preference out of him for this romantic feat. He rolled onto his back, joining George in the dirt where they gazed up at the sky. It was endless and blue, not a cloud in sight. And if Ben closed his eyes, he could only faintly recall the stars that night, three years ago. The way they glittered, pricking the black empty sky. How Ben was content that they would be the last thing he ever saw. Until he saw George, and then…

Endless blue skies. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fin.
> 
> I have to say that it's very bittersweet to wrap this fic up. I've made so many friends, so many fond memories writing it. This will always have a special place in my heart, and if you've followed from the beginning, I am utterly grateful.

**Author's Note:**

> More prompts and asks can be seen on my tumblr @grumblebee-trilogy. 
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated! Let me know you had fun :D


End file.
